“But I’m coming; I want to come!” Peignton assured her. “It’s too hot for golf, and a picnic would be good fun if we can find a spot where there’s some air, and not too much undergrowth. I like to eat at a picnic, not to be eaten myself. I was up half a dozen times last night anointing myself with ammonia.”
“I know a place. I spotted it a week ago. Just beyond Queensdom, the cliff shelves steeply and leaves a patch of shade open to all the air there is. It’s quite a short walk,—a mile or a mile and a half; the servants can leave the baskets, and come back for their own lunch, and in the afternoon we’ll sleep, Cassandra and I, and discuss the iniquities of husbands, while you two go off on your lone, and come back to us for tea... What it is to be engaged!”
Teresa smiled happily, Martin raised his eyes to the ceiling in tragic self-vindication.
“Who is always holding forth on the necessity of exercise? Who is always warning me against the danger of a sedentary life? Who insisted upon a house near to golf links? Who goads me every night of her life to arrange a match for the next day?”
“I do,” cried Grizel. “Of course. It’s my duty. And then I’m furious when you go. Of course again. Any wife is. Do you expect me to be pleased?”
“It would seem a natural inference.—If you really mean what you say.”
“I do mean it. I want you to have everything you like; I’m a monster of unselfishness over night, but to sit still in the morning, watching you dressing yourself up, polishing your clubs, starting off grinning from ear to ear, so happy to go off without me, and to feel pleased at the time—no! that’s beyond me!” Grizel declared vigorously. “I’m human, my good man. Don’t expect me to act like an angel.”
Bernard Raynor glanced across at his wife and laughed; his slow, complaisant laugh.
“You must be a full-blown angel, Cass. What? Never gives you any qualms! Wait a bit, Mrs Beverley, and you’ll find it comes easy enough. In another year you’ll be thankful to be rid of him. Deadly mistake to hang together all the time! Go your own way, and allow the other to do the same; that’s the sure tip for matrimony. Then you jog on contentedly, and avoid spars.”
The blue, shallow eyes roved round the table, complacently seeking approval; complacently unconscious of the artificiality of the smiles vouchsafed. Cassandra held her head high, disdaining a reply. Grizel hugged a glorious certainty that there would be no “jogging” for her. Storms perchance, half-serious, half-pretence, clearing the atmosphere, and opening the way for a glorious “make up”; but a “jog,”—never! never! Teresa mentally condemned both, and reflected how much more wisely she herself would manage her husband. From the beginning there should be a fair arrangement—so much time for sport, so much for home. One would not want a man pottering round all the time.