“It’s just her way of nosing into other people’s affairs. If she hadn’t been so nasty about Mr. Trenton in the first place I wouldn’t have had to lie.”
“It’s too bad Ethel’s got that spirit. It must be hard living with such a person.”
Irene was waiting for them when they reached the Pendennis. Grace noted that her friend wore her simplest gown and hat, perhaps as an outward sign of the chastened mood in which Kemp’s passing had left her. John sat between them and their enjoyment of the picture was enhanced by his droll comments.
“It’s me for the simple life,” said Irene at the end. “I’ll dream of myself as that girl in the sunbonnet going down the lane with the jug of buttermilk for the harvest hands.”
“The dream’s as near as you’ll ever come to it!” said Grace. “I can see you on a farm!”
“I’d be an ideal farmer’s wife, wouldn’t I, Mr. Moore? I’ve certainly got enough sense to feed the chickens.”
“When you weren’t doing that you could feed the mortgage,” John replied. “Let’s see, which one of you girls am I going to take home first?”
They went into a confectioner’s for a hot chocolate and to discuss this momentous question. Irene lived in the East End, much farther from the theatre than Grace. Grace insisted that if he took her home first she would think it because he wanted to spend more time with Irene.
“That would be perfectly satisfactory to me!” said Irene demurely.
“I don’t know that I’d hate it so much myself,” John replied.