“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re waiting for Corky, aren’t you?”
“Oh, I didn’t understand. No, I’m not waiting for him.”
It seemed to me that there was a sort of something in her voice, a kind of thingummy, you know.
“I say, you haven’t had a row with Corky, have you?”
“A row?”
“A spat, don’t you know—little misunderstanding—faults on both sides—er—and all that sort of thing.”
“Why, whatever makes you think that?”
“Oh, well, as it were, what? What I mean is—I thought you usually dined with him before you went to the theatre.”
“I’ve left the stage now.”