She smiled. “Continue—to wonder! That is the way to make men think about you. An ounce of conjecture is worth a hundredweight of knowledge where women are concerned.... Good gracious, Patricia, is there any more of you to unwind? I thought it was a boa-constrictor standing on his hind legs. Haven’t you stopped growing?”
“In stature—yes.” She was more of an Amazon than ever as she rose from somewhere behind the piano. She gripped Image by the hand, and it was a real grip.
“How about goodness?” queried Rhoda.
“A non-starter—the handicap frightens me. We are not a good family, you know.... What a lot of people and congratulations! I should have thought Gilbert might have got home early to have relieved his wife’s blushes, and given himself a sort of holiday treat.”
“Working as hard as ever?”
“Harder. I annoyed him the other day by predicting a nerve-breakdown—he was playing golf so badly—in a couple of years. And that same night at dinner he was so dead tired or cross that he hardly said a word, and I was left to talk to a boy I’d refused the night before. He was sulky and devoted himself to his food. I had a beastly time. I told Gilbert that he fancied he was an indestructible machine, and that he would find he wasn’t. Anyway, he hates dinner-parties, and he begins to show it in his manners.”
“If I were Claudia I should leave him at home,” said Rhoda coolly. “I always leave mine at home. I tell people not to invite him. A husband is always the skeleton at the feast.”
“Why have a husband at all?” said Pat lightly, who knew her Rhoda.
“It’s a bad habit we shall outgrow in time, like needle-work and charity. A husband is like your appendix. When you don’t know it’s there, it’s no use, and when you do, it’s a nuisance.”
“Had any tea?” inquired Patricia of Image.