“If you want to get to Mr. Colman’s explosion, before the people come to dinner, Algernon, you had better make haste,” said his wife, fan and gloves in hand, advancing with the calm of buxom years to the ottoman where he was sitting.
“It will take you half an hour to put on your new gloves, my dear,” he retorted. He emphasised the fact of their newness, because he had brought them home with him that afternoon.
“So like a man,” murmured Mrs. Harroway.
“Well, sit down and I’ll tell you,” he said, making room for her on the ottoman.
She sat and busied herself with the gloves, and Harroway relapsed into narrative. In the middle of the discussion with Chevasse, in walked Hugh. The restaurant was one of his usual haunts. Sat down at their table, and talked about things in general in the charmingest of moods. One would have thought him the mildest mannered man—like Lambro.
“Like who?” said Mrs. Harroway.
“Don’t interrupt, we haven’t time,” replied Harroway with a chuckle.
He resumed. Chevasse went away, leaving him alone with Hugh. They had coffee, liqueurs, and cigars. Things very comfortable. Harroway enquired after Mrs. Merriam. She was well, though of course feeling the quietness of her life. She was writing on social subjects, under a pseudonym, and was making a little reputation. But it was bitter for her. Here was the chance. What need of tact?
Why didn’t he marry her? Hugh twirled his moustache. Selina knew the way. Began to look dangerous. He supposed that was what everybody was asking. There was no question of marriage between them. Never had been. Never would be. He drank off his coffee, threw away his cigar, and put his hands in his pockets. He worshipped the ground she trod on, said he; would give up his life for her any day. But no idea of marriage.
“Why not?” asked Mrs. Harroway, wide-eyed.