“I certainly think that the least you can do, as a good womanly woman, is to have a capable lawyer watching your interests.”
“But we can easily find out if he is at the office. We can ring them up on the ’phone and ask.”
“And be told that he is in conference. He will not have neglected to arrange for that.”
“Then what shall I do?”
“Wait,” said Mrs. Maplebury. “Wait and be watchful.”
The shades of night were falling when Bradbury returned to his home. He was fatigued but jubilant. He had played forty-five holes in the society of his own sex. He had kept his head down and his eye on the ball. He had sung negro spirituals in the locker-room.
“I trust, Bradbury,” said Mrs. Maplebury, “that you are not tired after your long day?”
“A little,” said Bradbury. “Nothing to signify.” He turned radiantly to his wife.
“Honey,” he said, “you remember the trouble I was having with my iron? Well, to-day—”
He stopped aghast. Like every good husband it had always been his practice hitherto to bring his golfing troubles to his wife, and in many a cosy after-dinner chat he had confided to her the difficulty he was having in keeping his iron-shots straight. And he had only just stopped himself now from telling her that to-day he had been hitting ’em sweetly on the meat right down the middle.