“I thought everybody knew that. Of course, it was from Braybridge finally, but I suppose it's always six of one and half a dozen of the other in these cases, isn't it? I dare say he couldn't get any one to take her the handkerchief. My dinner?” Halson looked up at the silent waiter who had stolen upon us and was bowing toward him.
“Look here, Halson,” Minver detained him, “how is it none of the rest of us have heard all those details?”
“I don't know where you've been, Minver. Everybody knows the main facts,” Halson said, escaping.
Wanhope observed musingly: “I suppose he's quite right about the reciprocality of the offer, as we call it. There's probably, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, a perfect understanding before there's an explanation. In many cases the offer and the acceptance must really be tacit.”
“Yes,” I ventured, “and I don't know why we're so severe with women when they seem to take the initiative. It's merely, after all, the call of the maiden bird, and there's nothing lovelier or more endearing in nature than that.”
“Maiden bird is good, Acton,” Minver approved. “Why don't you institute a class of fiction, where the love-making is all done by the maiden birds, as you call them—or the widow birds? It would be tremendously popular with both sexes. It would lift a tremendous responsibility off the birds who've been expected to shoulder it heretofore if it could be introduced into real life.”
Rulledge fetched a long, simple-hearted sigh. “Well, it's a charming story. How well he told it!”
The waiter came again, and this time signalled to Minver.
“Yes,” he said, as he rose. “What a pity you can't believe a word Halson says.”
“Do you mean—” we began simultaneously.