"I'm sure I have no idea what you are talking about, Ted. You are always a bore, like all the Jevonses, when you try to be amusing. The crest is certainly not a yellow dog."
There had been no time, as yet, to do anything to the garden. We stood, therefore, and talked of possibilities rather than of facts. We hoped to afford a tennis court by spring. There was just enough length, with room along the sides for flowers and a vegetable patch at the back. By the dining room window we were meditating a pergola.
"Amateur flowers never grow, or, if they do, they never blossom," announced my mother.
The housemaid rang the dinner gong. Helen and I felt we had now to face the supreme test. Our first dinner party! Helen was probably nervous as we sat down, and I rather wished I knew more about carving. My dear wife, not thinking of me, had ordered ducklings. The soup passed off very well. I had cheated there and brought some out from a caterer's in town.
"Helen makes rather good soup," I remarked, while the lady of the house cast me an imploring look from the other end of the table.
"It's the best soup I ever tasted," affirmed my father, wishing to be tactful. "Very clever of you, Helen."
Helen blushed crimson, but sat silent.
"You got it at Hickson's," said my mother calmly. "We often have it at home, although no one notices it."
"Ted—" Helen began. My mother cut her short.
"You need not apologize for Ted, Helen. I knew him before you did."