"You, Cinda!" The instantaneous change of tone would have been laughable if it hadn't been worse, the cause of a little flutter of forbidden delight. "Why, bless your soul! I'm glad I came back. They barely caught me at the door."
"Were you in a hurry to get on somewhere, Dobbin? I mean, am I detaining you?"
"Not a bit. Foolishly staggering out to try to find some place where the cooking was less perfunctory than here at the club."
"Sure you've got nothing important on?"
"If you must know, I was wondering what to do with a lonely evening."
"Then that makes two of us. Why can't we join forces and be miserable together?"
"With you? I'll do my best, but I don't promise.... What's up?"
"Oh, everything, more or less. I'm in a villainous temper, Dobbin, and you'll be a dear if you'll come and dine with me—Bel's telephoned he won't be home—talk me into a decent humour and take me to the opera. And then—I don't care what we do!"
"Well, if you're half as reckless as you try to make out, you certainly need somebody to keep you from kicking over the traces."
"Then you will come?"