"I will be quite frank with you," she went on, holding out her left hand with a dramatic flourish; "I am married—I have a husband."
I gave a hollow groan; then, with a manly effort, I mastered my emotion.
"I hope he's nice to you," I said.
"No, he isn't. He grouches off to the office in the morning and grouches back in the evening and reads newspapers. He's just grouched off now."
"The callous brute!" I hissed through my teeth.
"There's worse than that," she said darkly.
"No!"
"Yes. To-day, to-day is an anniversary, and he forgot it." The manner was that of Madame Bernhardt.
"Anniversaries," I said reassuringly, "are difficult to remember. They accumulate so."
"Are you defending him?" she protested.