He stopped. He perceived that he had been introducing into the debate extraneous and irrelevant matter.
“Honey,” he said, fervently, “you musn’t get mad about this. Maybe, if we try again, it will be all right. Give me another chance. Let me come out and play a round to-morrow. I think perhaps your style of play is a thing that wants getting used to. After all, I didn’t like olives the first time I tried them. Or whisky. Or caviare, for that matter. Probably if—”
Mrs. Fisher shook her head.
“I shall never play again.”
“Oh, but, listen—”
She looked at him fondly, her eyes dim with happy tears.
“I should have known you better, Bradbury. I suspected you. How foolish I was.”
“There, there,” said Bradbury.
“It was mother’s fault. She put ideas into my head.”
There was much that Bradbury would have liked to say about her mother, but he felt that this was not the time.