“And you keep it from your own wife, who’s been married to you over twenty years.”
“Over twenty years!” said Dick, smiling at her—“is it, now? Well, I suppose it is. But lor’, who’d have thought it? Why, mother, you grow younger and handsomer every day!”
“Do I?” said Mrs Shingle, evidently feeling flattered, but angry all the same. “If I do, father, it’s not from ease of mind.”
“Come, come, mother,” he said, getting up and putting his arm round her, “don’t turn cross about it. I made a sort of promise like, when I thought of the idea that I’ve worked out into this house and this style of grounds for you, and your watch and chain and joolery, that I’d keep it all a secret.”
“Then it isn’t honest, father.”
“That’s what you’ve often said, mother, when you’ve been a bit waxy with me, and that’s what I felt you might say when I first thought it out and promised to keep it a secret.”
“Who did you promise?”
“Him,” said Dick, taking up an envelope and pointing to it with pride. “See—
”‘Richard Shingle, Esq., The Ivy House, Haverstock Hill,’” he went on, reading the address. “That’s the man I promised.”
“Yes,” said Mrs Shingle, trying to escape from his arm, but very feebly; “and kept it from your own wife.”