He nodded, not very interested, and twirled his moustache in silence.
“You are not making a very good start by way of being amusing,” said Mrs. Clavering. “How is your wife?”
“Oh, very well. But I don't see how that topic could amuse you. Matrimony isn't very funny.”
“Glad to get out of the toils, I suppose.”
“Passably. It leaves me free in the society of the only woman I have reasonably cared for,” he said, without changing his attitude.
“Have you come down to play at that sort of thing again?” she asked, arching her eyebrows, with a little supercilious curl on her thin lips.
“That's what you wanted me here for, I suppose.”
“You came to shoot little birds on the invitation of my adoring husband.”
“Perhaps the motives were mixed. You wouldn't believe me if I told you I had come to see you. That was my main inducement. I suppose I ought to have begun better and told you of my longing and despair. Let me make my declaration now, Clara.”
“Bah! my friend. What is the meaning of all this?” she said cynically. “You don't care a straw for me—you told me yourself I had gone off lamentably. And I don't rate you a halfpenny above your worth. You are a fine-looking man with impulses and animal passions instead of brains and heart; and if you were to die to-morrow, my delicate appreciation of my dinner would not be impaired. So why in the name of common sense have we revived this miserable farce?”