At the risk of writing myself down old-fashioned and conventional, I admit there are two or three words that send a shiver through me.
"My dear Raney ...!" I began.
He laid a hand on my arm.
"You can't improve on what she said, old man," he assured me.
"Call a spade 'a spade' by all means," I said, "but not 'a bloody shovel.' Especially with women. They have to pretend to be shocked."
He threw up his head with a mirthless laugh.
"There was devilish little pretence about Lady Dainton. It wasn't a word I ought to have used, and apparently it wasn't a thing I ought to have been. I suppose—she hadn't—heard about it before." He stood silent for many moments. "I asked her whether my presence was still acceptable. Of course she was bound ... did it very nicely, all the same. She said I was as welcome as before last June."
He took out a pipe and began filling it. I have met few men to whom the trite metaphor of "blowing off steam" was so applicable.
"Was that all?" I asked.
"I told her I regarded myself as being still engaged to Sonia." His eyes suddenly blazed and his voice rose. "And that I'd marry her if the whole world was in our way. Children indeed! Does she think there's some fixed age for falling in love?" Again he blew a long breath. "She said she couldn't be responsible for what I chose to fancy about myself, but that I knew her views. There the row ended."