"I do!" Mr. Pownceby held out the slim pamphlet at arm's length in front of him. He pointed at it with the index-finger of his other hand: "'How to Hypnotise. A Practical Treatise. Hints to Amateurs. With full instructions for marvellous experiments. Price 7d. post free, eight stamps.'"
"Oh, Mr. Pownceby, I am so sorry."
"Sorry, Mrs. Pratt! Why, it was, at your instigation I plunged to the extent of those eight stamps."
"But you don't understand; my husband's coming; I have to meet him at the station at 12.32." Mr. Pownceby stroked his moustache; there was not much, but he was fond of stroking what there was of it. Mrs. Pratt's husband had been rather a joke. People who winter in hotels are, as a rule, quite prepared to be epigrammatic at the expense of a pretty married woman whose husband is not in evidence. And Mrs. Pratt's husband had not been in evidence--as yet.
"I don't quite follow you." Mr. Pownceby spoke with a little malice. "Whence your sorrow? Because your husband is coming by the 12.32?"
"Don't you see, I want to be the first to be experimented on. I've been waiting for that book two days, and now it just comes when I can't stay. Don't' you think there's time? Come into my sitting-room."
They went into her sitting-room. When they were there, the lady again assailed the gentleman with the inquiry:
"Don't you think there's time?"
"It depends. I think you're going too fast. To commence with, I've been looking through the thing in the smoking-room, and I believe it's a swindle."
"A swindle! Oh, don't say that."