After that we joined the ladies for an unimportant half hour or so, and then Barbara and I took our leave. As we were motoring home—we live some thirty miles out of London—we discussed the dinner party, according to the way of married folks, home-bound after a feast, and I mentioned the trivial incident of Adrian and the broken glass. Why should his face have been so haggard when he had everything to make him happy?
"He was thinking of Mr. Jornicroft's previous insulting behaviour."
"How do you know?"
"He told me," said Barbara.
"I never knew Adrian to be seriously vindictive," said I.
"It strikes me, my dear," replied Barbara, taking my hand, "that you are an old ignoramus."
And this from a woman who actively glories in not knowing how many "r's" there are in "harassed."
She nestled up to me. "We're not going abroad in August, are we?"
"What?" I cried, "leave the English country during the only part of the year that is not 'deformed with dripping rains or withered by a frost'? Certainly not."
"But we did last year, and the year before."