I snickered at his French, then turned my attention to Mr. Bonstone who was saying quietly, “You’ve changed your mind about going to that fancy dress affair to-night, haven’t you?”
“I believe I have,” she said dreamily, and she slipped from the arm of his chair to another big one, and sinking back in it, fixed her eyes on the fire.
“Haven’t you a farm somewhere near here?” she asked presently.
An eager look came into Mr. Bonstone’s eyes. “Yes,” he said shortly. “I have.”
“Let’s pretend we’re the farmer and his wife,” she said coaxingly. “I’ve just been out to the stable, and put the hens to bed.”
Mr. Bonstone smiled. “Suppose we say hen-house,” he remarked. “Hens, as a rule, don’t sleep in the stable.”
“Well—the hen-house,” she said. “You’ve just been milking the cows.”
“I can milk,” said Mr. Bonstone, “but I don’t count on ever doing it myself.”
“Why not?” asked Mrs. Bonstone.