“Your grandmother has asked me three times, and I feel I ought to have known. I said ‘quite well, thanks,’ but now I come to think of it, she isn’t. Would it be the right thing to ring off, and ring up again to contradict the statement.”
“It would be easier on the whole to cure your mother, and get it right that way.”
“I say, it isn’t Merle. It’s you.”
“Yes, it’s me. Merle’s lying down.”
A pause. Then a chuckle from the other end.
“I trust you have recovered from the fatigues of the dance, Peter. I recollect that you were among the last to go.”
She assured him politely that she was suffering from no ill-effects, and trusted he was the same. And she passed over the use of her Christian name.
“What are you talking about, you two girls? Irish-stew of the night before? Have I come in yet?”
“Perhaps you don’t come in.”
“I am coming in,” something very like a threat in the assurance. “I’m in already. Well in. Merle told me about the projected Triumvirate.”