“You must have been pretty when you were a girl.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Fourmy, taking up her crochet, “my hair was lovely.”
With that she rose and busied herself with preparing tea, taking out the caddy in which the party brand was kept, and her best table-center and the ornaments which were reserved for the few elegant occasions the household could admit.
“I got a pair of sleeve-links for George,” said René. “Silver and agate. When’s he going to be married? They might do for a wedding present as well.”
“They are going to be married at once. They’ve got to be.”
“I say!” He spun round on that. “I say. Need you have told me? When she’s coming here and all!”
But Mrs. Fourmy was remorseless. She said with biting coldness:
“When George was a little boy, he found out when I was married and reckoned up from that to the day when he was born, and he let me know that he knew. He told you too.”
“Yes. He told me. How did you know?”
“You looked at me all one Sunday afternoon with your big eyes.”