"Y-es."
He hesitated, and I began to plead with him, earnestly and eagerly, not to deny me what I asked.
"Take me home, I beg, I pray."
At length, seeming to think I must be homesick, he said:
"Well, you know my views about that God-forsaken place, but the season's nearly at an end, and I don't mind going back on one condition—that you raise no objection to my inviting a few friends to liven it up a bit?"
"It is your house," I said. "You must do as you please in it."
"Very good; that's settled," he said, getting up to go. "And I dare say it will do you no harm to be out of the way of all this church-going and confessing to priests, who are always depressing people even when they're not making mischief."
Hardly had my husband left me when Alma came into my sitting-room in the most affectionate and insincere of her moods.
"My poor, dear sweet child," she said. "If I'd had the least idea you were feeling so badly I shouldn't have allowed Jimmy to stay another minute at that tiresome reception. But how good it was of Mr. Conrad to come all that way to see you! That's what I call being a friend now!"
Then came the real object of her visit—I saw it coming.