The waiter interrupted us just then with our first course, and for a few minutes there was silence. Then George said, “You see, Myra expects me to win.”
I said, “Oh,” rather blankly, and then: “I’m sorry, George, but I’m rather out of touch. Who is Myra?”
George said with an effort: “Myra is the girl I’m going to marry.”
Automatically I murmured my congratulations, but I was extremely puzzled, as he didn’t seem at all happy. In fact, my congratulations fell rather flat.
There was rather a long, strained silence after that, then I said, “Well, tell me all about it.”
George sat back with a little shrug. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, “I don’t want to bother you with details. You see, Myra likes celebrities. At first she wouldn’t look at me. Then some of the crowd began to talk about my driving and she took a little interest. I sort of took up the racing to please her, and now we are going to get married.”
All the time he was talking he avoided looking at me, and I thought it was a most extraordinary story. “But surely, George, she must realize what risks you are taking. I mean, she wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”
I found that I was floundering, and stopped talking, annoyed at myself. I am old-fashioned enough to believe that marriage should be founded on a quarter of love and three-quarters companionship. It seemed too much like a Hollywood wedding to please me.
George shook his head. “Why, I guess she’s got a lot of confidence in my driving.”
I said, rather dryly, “I see.”