“You seemed to me to talk to him like a wife. Am I addressing Mrs. Cootes?”
“You will be if you stick around a while.”
“A thousand congratulations to Comrade Cootes. Not quite so many to you, possibly, but fully that number of good wishes.” He moved towards the poetess with extended hand. “I am thinking of getting married myself shortly.”
“Keep those hands up,” said Mr. Cootes.
“Surely,” said Psmith reproachfully, “these conventions need not be observed among friends? You will find the only revolver I have ever possessed over there on the mantelpiece. Go and look at it.”
“Yes, and have you jumping on my back the moment I took my eyes off you!”
“There is a suspicious vein in your nature, Comrade Cootes,” sighed Psmith, “which I do not like to see. Fight against it.” He turned to Miss Peavey once more. “To resume a pleasanter topic, you will let me know where to send the plated fish-slice, won’t you?”
“Huh?” said the lady.
“I was hoping,” proceeded Psmith, “if you do not think it a liberty on the part of one who has known you but a short time, to be allowed to send you a small wedding-present in due season. And one of these days, perhaps, when I too am married, you and Comrade Cootes will come and visit us in our little home. You will receive a hearty, unaffected welcome. You must not be offended if, just before you say good-bye, we count the spoons.”
One would scarcely have supposed Miss Peavey a sensitive woman, yet at this remark an ominous frown clouded her white forehead. Her careless amiability seemed to wane. She raked Psmith with a glittering eye.