“I wouldn’t!” Delphine said—“it’s so queer. Unless, of course, one’s husband had a hideous name—Elisha, or Jonathan, or something like that. Even then one might leave it out.”
“I shouldn’t dream of marrying anyone called Elisha.”
“What was—is—your favourite man’s name?”
“Jacky,” said Charmion naughtily.
Delphine’s eyes flashed.
“Was that your husband’s name?”
“Oh no.”
The pink lips opened to ask a further, more definite question, but it died unsaid. The steady gaze of Charmion’s eyes prevented that. She would be a bold woman who could defy that silent challenge!
We made our escape, and walked home in silence. Charmion seemed very depressed, and went to bed at nine o’clock. Next time I see Delphine Merrivale, I shall tell her plainly that I will—not—have Mrs Fane annoyed with questions about the past!
Last night we dined at the Hall. Last night things happened. We started feeling quite festive and excited, for, after a strictly domestic life for nearly five months, it becomes quite thrilling to dine in another house, and to eat food which one has not ordered oneself. As we drove along the lanes, we amused ourselves like schoolgirls, guessing what we “would have,” and who would “take us in”. Charmion, as the married woman, would obviously fall to the Squire. I hoped I should be at the other end of the table, with a partner who was sweet tempered and appreciative. Bridget had come back from posting a letter, bearing the thrilling news that the Squire’s car had been to the station to meet a party of guests. Two fine, upstanding ladies, and a gentleman with a figure like a wooden Noah in the Ark. The shoulders of him!—that square you might have cut them with a knife! It was refreshing to know that we were to meet people who did not live within a radius of five miles. I rather hoped those shoulders would fall to my share!