Juliet watched her guest go down the street, and waved an affectionate hand at her as Judith looked back from her seat in the trolley car. “Poor old Judy,” she said to herself. “How glad you are you’re not I!—And how very, very glad I am I’m not you!”
An observation, it must be admitted, essentially feminine. No man is ever heard to felicitate himself upon the fact that he is not some other man.
XV.—Anthony Plays Maid
After dinner that night, Juliet, having once more put things in order and slipped off the big pinafore which had kept her spotless, joined her husband in the garden up and down which he was comfortably pacing, hands in pockets, pipe in mouth.
“Jolly spot, isn’t it? Come and perambulate,” he suggested.
“Just for a minute. Tony, are we going to the Reardons?”
He stood still and considered. “I don’t know. Are we? Did you accept?”
“On condition that you felt like it. I represented you as coming home decidedly fagged these hot nights and not always caring to stir.”