John was gazing moodily at the fire.
"So that's that," said Cecilia cheerfully, resting her hand softly on his shoulder. "And you'd better be thinking what to say to make the jolly old farmers stump up, my dear."
John cleared his throat.
"I've—er—decided not to come to the concert, dear," he said.
"Don't be ridiculous, John," said Cecilia, cooing like a covey (or whatever it is) of doves. "Of course you're coming. I've arranged it all."
"I think I'd rather stop at home, dear," he said; "I can—er—look after Christopher and—er—there's a bit of work I have to finish."
"Christopher will be in bed, and your old work can wait, just as it always has to."
"Well, you know, darling," said John, looking furtively at Margery and me, "I'm not much use at these social affairs. I always say the wrong thing."
"I know you do, dear," said Cecilia sweetly; "but they've all heard you before, and nobody minds."
She paused a moment while John gulped.