“The detective is a slur on any story. He is merely the author’s fool.”
“But they are not even love stories of the kind you’re accustomed to.”
“Of course not. Here in an Inn of Court you have no opportunities—no conservatory, no ballroom, no garden parties. Gerald proposed to me on the Underground Railway—and deserved to be refused. But he had the grace to apologize.”
“Well, I’ll tell you all I know—or nearly. Some very droll things that I could tell would not interest you.”
“I don’t mind being startled. You promised not to irritate me by being chivalrous. Chivalry! That subtle grip of the Middle Ages on my sex.”
“But a woman—don’t interrupt; I use the word in a superior sense—can never appreciate the fine humor of a tipsy man. She expects him to be obvious: to fall in the gutter, to be towed home by the policeman, or fined for being disorderly. Tales of buoyancy, funny from the man’s point of view, would bore you.”
“Humph!”
“There are other tales—quite of the feudal period—which Gerald would rather I did not tell. Merry tales, with an undercurrent of sadness: the most perfect form of humor.”
“I hope you don’t tax me with immodest prudery.”
“I tax your husband. Some of the tales may be rather mad.”