"Because you're a woman and sentimental," said her spouse, wrestling with a cuff-link.
"No; because I am a woman whose instinct tells her that nothing will seem too big for a man for whom nothing is too small. And—what an incident for a paragraph!"
He grinned: "With headin's in thunderin' big capitals.... 'The Soldier Hero Sports With A Babbling Babe.... The Defender Of British Prestige At Gueldersdorp Puts In Half an Hour At Cat's-Cradle Ere The Armoured Train Toddles Out With The B.S.A.P. To Give Beans To The Blooming Boer!'"
She darted at him, caught him by the lapels ... made him look at her.
"It's true? You really mean it? The ball begins?"
"Upon the honour of a henpecked husband—before daybreak to-morrow, you'll hear the music."
She sparkled with delight.
"Oh, poor, unlucky, humdrum women at home in England, walking with the shooters, or lolling in hammocks under trees, and trying to flirt with fat City financiers or vapid young attachés of Legation! I shall take the Irish mare, and borrow an orderly, and ride out to see a Real Action!"
His round pink face grew long. "The devil you will!"
"The devil I won't, you mean. Why, for what else under the sky did I come out here but the glorious chance of War?" Her impatient foot tapped the floor. He recognised the warning of domestic battle, glowered, and gave in.