“My second is in woman but not in man, my first is French, I have two syllables, and you’ll never guess.”
“Where did you get it?” asked Panoukian.
“I made it up.”
So they tried to guess and soon confessed themselves beaten. Then she told them that the second half of the riddle was sense, because she never knew a man who had it; and the first half was non and together they made nonsense, because she felt like it.
Her mood lasted for five days. Panoukian came in every evening—(she was rehearsing for a new play, but only in the daytime)—and they frolicked and sang and burlesqued their own solemn discussions. On the sixth day her high spirits sank and she was moody and silent. She forbade Panoukian to come in the evening. He came at teatime, and she stayed out. One day Old Mole had tea with Panoukian. They walked in the Temple Gardens afterward, and Panoukian blurted out:
“I don’t know if your wife has told you, sir, but after we left the Schlegelmeiers’ it was such a glorious night, and we were so glad to be in the air again, that we took a taxi and drove down to Richmond and came back in the dawn. There wasn’t any harm in it, as you and I see things, but I’ve been thinking it over and come to the conclusion that you ought to know.”
A sudden anger took possession of Old Mole, and he retorted:
“Of course, if there were any harm in it, you wouldn’t tell me.”
“Hang it all, sir. You haven’t any right to say that to me.”