"Has he confided any of his love affairs to you, I mean?" continued Kitty, quite unabashed.
"If you eat any more chocolates you will make yourself sick," I observed.
"Yes, dear," said my wife submissively, pushing away the bon-bon dish. "But has he?"
"Are you trying to pump me?"
"Oh, gracious, no! What would be the good? I only asked a plain question. You men are such creatures for screening each other, though, that it's never any use asking a man anything about another man."
"True for you. As a matter of fact, Robin has hardly said a word to me on the subject of women since first I met him."
Kitty thoughtfully cracked a filbert with her teeth—an unladylike habit about which I have often spoken to her—and said—
"What exciting chats you must have!" Then she added reflectively—
"I expect it's a girl in Scotland. A sort of Highland lassie, in a kilt, or whatever female Highlanders wear."
"Why should a novel about the Stock Exchange 'owe its inception' to a Highland lassie?"