It was a picture into which, as a thrifty entertainer himself, Bob Assingham could more or less enter. “Maggie and the child spread so?”
“Maggie and the child spread so.”
Well, he considered. “It IS rather rum,”
“That’s all I claim”—she seemed thankful for the word. “I don’t say it’s anything more—but it IS, distinctly, rum.”
Which, after an instant, the Colonel took up. “‘More’? What more COULD it be?”
“It could be that she’s unhappy, and that she takes her funny little way of consoling herself. For if she were unhappy”—Mrs. Assingham had figured it out—“that’s just the way, I’m convinced, she would take. But how can she be unhappy, since—as I’m also convinced—she, in the midst of everything, adores her husband as much as ever?”
The Colonel at this brooded for a little at large. “Then if she’s so happy, please what’s the matter?”
It made his wife almost spring at him. “You think then she’s secretly wretched?”
But he threw up his arms in deprecation. “Ah, my dear, I give them up to YOU. I’ve nothing more to suggest.”
“Then it’s not sweet of you.” She spoke at present as if he were frequently sweet. “You admit that it is ‘rum.’”