“I’m sorry, darling, to have been so mouldy,” she said, taking leave of Godfrey one morning, “but the situation is getting on my nerves. I’m fed up.”
A day or two later Edgar Donnithorpe entered her sitting-room, where she was writing letters.
“Sorry to interrupt you, Edna,” said he, “but have you definitely decided to go to Moulsford this next week-end?”
“Certainly. I told you. The Barringtons and Susie Delamere and one or two others are coming.”
“Do you mind if I don’t turn up till Sunday?”
“Of course not,” she replied. He was exceedingly polite.
“Thanks,” said he. “The fact is, I want to ask a dozen men or so to dinner here. Only men, you know.”
She glanced at him rather puzzled, for his proposal was an unprecedented departure from the custom of the house. Hitherto he had given his men’s political dinner parties at his club. There had been no arrangement or understanding between them as to this mode of entertainment, but so had it chanced to be; and he was a creature of routine.
“Of course. Just as you like. But what’s wrong with the only place fit to dine at in London?”
“It’s war time, my dear,” said he, eyeing her shiftily. “War time. All the clubs have gone to the devil.”