“I beg your pardon,” Jerry became a penitent hostess; “have you been talking to me? I haven’t heard a word. I’m sorry.”
The laugh went against Jawn.
“The seventy-seventh will be no madrigal,” Richard told him; “it will be just one more limerick, Jawn.”
“Please tell me about the madrigal?” Jerry asked politely.
Jawn pretended reluctance, but when urged confessed frankly his life-long hunt for a soul-mate, and of his belief that in Jerry he had found his El Dorado. It was ridiculous, of course, and Jawn could always be trusted to put his fun unequivocally. Mrs. Wells was delighted, especially with the Love Limericks; and Richard’s joy in his friend’s achievements was quite open; but Jerry, to her own astonishment, was annoyed. It was like joking at death in the presence of the bereaved.
And Richard’s off-hand discussion of the possibility of Jerry’s surrendering as a charitable means of putting an end to a flow of bad verse—that was unendurable. Fortunately, the inward perturbation was not outwardly disclosed; it was a simple matter to make a coldly apt comment, plead “business,” and withdraw to her room.
Jawn stared after her.
“Did you see how cut up she was?” he cried. “Ah, lad, it’s no joking matter. I’ve got a fine chance yet! A fine chance!”
Jerry had hardly crossed the threshold and heard him distinctly. She heard Richard’s reply, too.
“Possibly, Jawn! Possibly! Undoubtedly something moved her—moved her off without her dessert. I never saw her quite so confused, but I’m afraid the elephantine character of your wooing frightened her off.”