Mrs. Early grasped the table with both hands.
"Is it too bad for me to hear?" she whispered.
George leant his head upon one hand, and frowned heavily at the tablecloth.
"I suppose I'd better tell you," he said hoarsely. "Give me your hand. Are you calm now?"
"Quite," said Mrs. Early, shaking. "Tell me."
"Are you sure you won't faint?"
"I'll—I'll try not to."
"Then, listen," said George. "Your Aunt Phœbe is coming to stay with us."
He threw a letter across the table, and drew back in time to dodge the serviette thrown by his indignant spouse.
"George," said Mrs. Early, tragically, "I hate you!"