“Have you ever known a woman before?” I asked.
“I've known dozens of 'em,” he replied, with some indignation.
“And yet you propose to ask one whether she has been true to you?”
“Why shouldn't I?”
“Because, my friend, you will receive such an answer as a minister gives to a deputation.”
“But they might both tell the truth.”
“Neither ever lies,” I replied. “Diplomacy and Eve were invented to obviate the necessity'.”
This aphorism appeared to give him some food for reflection—or possibly he was merely silenced by a British disgust for anything that was not the roast beef of conversation.
We had come among the terraces and the trim yews and hollies of the garden. The long west wing of Seneschal Court with the high tower above it were close before us. Suddenly he stopped behind the shelter of a pruned and castellated hedge, and, with the air of a lost traveller seeking for guidance, asked me, “I say, what are you going to do?”
“Return to London this morning.”