“I really enjoy being outside,” she said. “One sees so much better.”
“But are you outside?” He looked narrowly at her with humorous, quizzical eyes. “Are you? I never knew you to be, puller of many threads!”
She laughed.
“Oh, I give a feeble jerk now and then. It’s all I can do. Tell me about Louise. I haven’t seen her for a week or more.”
“About Louise? But, my dear mother, if I once start talking about Louise …”
“Yes? Well, why not? What am I here for? Is there any … improvement, do you think?”
“Improvement? Let me tell you, then. You’ve brought it on yourself. I warned you.” He laughed. “I’ll tell you about last night. Last night we had Sir Henry Boyle-Stevens to dinner, and Mr. Stedman. About halfway through dinner Sir Henry said to Louise, but looking at me and smiling, ‘It’s a great comfort to me to be working with your husband. He is untiring and dependable.’ Old Sir Henry does like me, and we’ve always got on together like anything. Would you like to hear what Louise said in reply? Would you? Very well. She said—I will give you her exact words and their emphasis—‘I suppose Eric is dependable, politically.’ ‘I suppose,’ you observe, and then the accent on ‘politically.’ Sir Henry looked quickly at her, and then at me, and changed the subject. She meant me to hear. Then the next thing. After dinner the Lewis Pringles came in. We were still in the dining room—the men, I mean—and when we joined the rest in the drawing-room Louise greeted me with these words—for my ears alone—‘You needn’t have hurried, Eric. I was just enjoying hearing my own voice for a change.’ You ask me if there’s any improvement! What am I to do? We can’t go on like this much longer.”
“No. And I don’t think you ought to.”
He flung himself back into his chair.
“Why does she live in my house if she dislikes me as much as that?”