“In a detached sort of way.”
This was beyond Mr. Sikes. “In the war, I suppose.”
“Do I look like a woman who lost a husband in the war, Mr. Sikes?”
“You don’t look like you’d lost one anywhere,” said he, beginning to feel a trifle nettled. “You certainly don’t look like a widow to me.”
“What do I look like to you?” she inquired amiably.
“You look as if it wouldn’t distress you very much if I was to ask how long he’s been dead,” was his unexpected reply.
She flushed. “A very good answer to a very stupid question,” said she. “He isn’t dead. He is very much alive. He didn’t go to the war. I am one of those horrible, unspeakable things known as a grass widow, Mr. Sikes.”
“As I was saying,” he began after he had taken as much as thirty seconds to recover from the shock of this disclosure, “it wouldn’t surprise me if we got the storm inside of ten or fifteen minutes. I guess I’ll be moving along. Glad to have met you, Mrs.—”
“Do wait,” she cried. “Oliver won’t be a minute. We’ll take you wherever you wish to go, Mr. Sikes.”
“No, I won’t wait,” said he firmly. “But before I go, I want to—er—as I was saying, it ain’t any of my business—you understand that, don’t you?—er—I was just thinking it’s only fair to tell you that Oliver is—er—what you might call engaged, Mrs. Flame. Generally speaking, I mean.”