Apparently the supper was not a success. Archie ordered champagne. Norah tasted it, and made a face.
'My dear,' she said, 'the stuff's undrinkable. Do order something a little less like what they give you in church!'
Archie, in whose opinion wine began and ended with port, said nothing, and beckoned the wine waiter.
Unfortunately, he betrayed his thoughts by a slight shrug. Norah, who was tired and nervy, saw it.
'All right, I won't have it then. I suppose you think we can't afford it.' Archie shook his head. Much of his conversation was by sign. When you asked him a question, he paused before answering. A stranger would think he had not heard, and would repeat his question; but Archie was only thinking over his reply—a habit which may make valuable contribution to thought, but does not help small talk. Sometimes it would be your penultimate remark which he answered, having duly considered the question during the intermediate talk. No, Archie was not a conversationalist. But now Norah felt the need of opening her heart.
'I wish you'd drink a bit more fizz, Archie. It might binge you up a bit. You sat all through dinner looking as bored as sin, and you didn't smile once at the play or even at Tony Moorhouse.'
That gilded youth, after a conscientious patronage of the magnate's cellar, had subjected the revue artistes to a flow of not very witty interruption. The party had shrieked with laughter, and Archie had flattered himself that he, too, had gone through the motions of being amused.
'I'm sorry,' he protested, 'I was thinking——'
'My poor boy, you don't go to the play to think. What on earth were you thinking about?'
Now, one of Archie's habits which more than any other unfitted him for polite society was his tendency to tell the truth. So now he blurted out, 'I was thinking you'd miss all this in Edinburgh.'