Cecily pinned on the brooch in front of her tea-gown with deliberation.
“Central Africa,” she said. “Did you speak to him?”
“Speak to him? Of course,” echoed her husband. “I asked him to come down and stay a bit,” he added, opening and shutting a pin-box while he spoke. “He’s a great fisherman, fortunately, or else I don’t know what amusement we could offer him in this God-forsaken spot.”
He glanced at Cecily.
“Well?” he broke out impatiently, after a moment. “You’ve no objection, I suppose? What’s the matter?”
She began to put on her rings, very slowly.
“Nothing’s the matter,” she said. “I was only thinking——”
“Yes? Thinking what?” he urged, moving irritably.
“How jealous you used to be of Dick Mayne.” She turned from the glass, and her eyes, for the first time, met her husband’s. He evaded their glance by springing up.
“Oh, my dear Cecily,” he began angrily. “What nonsense! I do hate this——” The deep sound of the gong downstairs cut him short.