“I have no lover,” she said—was it mournfully? “I have a husband, it is true; but he is not exactly of the type of King Arthur—nor Sir Galahad, for that matter. I hope you found Paris as enjoyable as ever?”
“Quite. I never saw at Paris a more enrapturing toilet than yours of last night. You are, I know, the handsomest woman of my acquaintance, and you looked handsomer than I had ever before seen you in that costume. I wonder why you put it on.”
“Didn’t someone—was it Phyllis?—suggest that it was an act of inspiration; that I had a secret, mysterious prompting to put it on to achieve the object which—well, which I did achieve.”
“Object? What object?”
“To make my husband fall in love with me again.”
“Ah! In love there is no again. I wonder where a telegram would find Herbert.”
“Don’t worry yourself about him. Let him enjoy his holiday.”
“Do you fancy he is enjoying himself with Earlscourt and his boon companions? They’ll be playing poker from morning till night—certainly from night till morning.”
“Why should he go on the cruise if he was not certain to enjoy himself?”
“Ah, that question is too much for me. Think over it yourself and let me know if you come to a solution, my dear.”