Jacqueline looked at her in relieved astonishment for a moment.
"Did he telephone?"
"Yes—or rather, Mr. Cairns did——"
"Mr. Cairns! Why did Mr. Cairns telephone? Why didn't my husband telephone? Cynthia—look at me!"
Cynthia met her eye undaunted.
"Why," repeated Jacqueline, "didn't my husband telephone to me? Is he too ill? Is that it? Are you concealing it? Are you, Cynthia?"
Cynthia smiled: "He's a casual young man, darling. I believe he's taking a cold plunge or something. He'll probably be here in a few minutes. So I'll say good-night." She picked up her fur neckpiece, glanced at the mirror, fluffed a curl or two, and turned to Jacqueline. "Don't spoil him, ducky," she whispered, putting her hands on the young wife's shoulders and looking her deep in the eyes.
Jacqueline flushed painfully.
"How do you mean, Cynthia?"
The latter said: "There are a million ways of spoiling a man beside giving up to him."