It was a cosy, intimate dining-room; small table set for two; uniformed butler standing rigid off to the side; maid, also in uniform, moving swiftly in and out a door and serving deftly—exactly the suggestion of a dinner en famille.
“That is the head of the table, dear,” said the lady.
The man was so startled, especially when he glanced back to the placid, innocent face of the lady, that he neglected to take any place at all.
“Can’t you see that this is a domestic scene?” she explained; “regular man-and-wife stage-set. They expect it of us.... Beautiful, expensive scenery,” she murmured, “spoiled by a wretched actor.”
Then she nodded her head towards the uniformed attendant, and began again.
“That is the head of the table, I think, dear.”
He grinned and made for the seat.
“That is the head; is it not, my dear?” she persisted.
“It is,” he agreed.
She declined to sit.