“Well, Champney, dear, at least do tell me how you found out about—about—” Frances stopped there.
“Never,” persisted Champney, nestling back on the sofa and laughing.
“I don’t think it’s nice for a man to have secrets from his wife,” reproved Frances, taking an eminently feminine view of man’s knowledge.
“That is to be,” corrected Champney.
“Will you tell me—after to-morrow?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too good to be told.”
“Ah, Champney!” And a small hand strayed round his neck, and rested lightly against his cheek. Champney looked very contented.
“Please, dear.” And a pair of lips came dangerously close to his own.