"I'm sorry."
"Isn't that—what you called her headache?"
"No. I'm ashamed of my boorishness. Let me see Gertrude and tell her so."
Lucette smiled, slightly shaking her head. "Impossible—till she's feeling better. And not then—unless she changes her mind. You see, Ambrose, Mrs. Parrot's version of your reply was the last straw."
"No doubt she improved on the original," I muttered.
"Oh, no doubt," agreed Lucette calmly. "She would. It was silly of you not to think of that."
"Yes," I snapped. "Men always underestimate a woman's malice."
"They have so many distractions, poor dears. Men, I mean. And we have so few. You can put that in your next article, Ambrose?" She straightened her languid curves deliberately, as if preparing to rise.
"Please!" I exclaimed. "I'm not ready for dismissal yet. We'll get down to facts, if you don't mind. Why is Gertrude here at all? After years of silence? Did you send for her?"
Lucette's spine slowly relaxed, her shoulders drooped once more. "I? My dear Ambrose, why on earth should I do a thing like that?"