There was nothing paltry in her criticism of her husband, nothing she would not have said to his face. She was a woman who made you feel this, for sincerity was written all over her. I could not help wondering why she gave Mr. Cooke line in the matter of household decoration, unless it was that he considered Mohair his own, private hobby, and that she humored him. Mrs. Cooke was not without tact, and I have no doubt she perceived my reluctance to talk about her husband and respected it.
“We drove down to bring you back to luncheon,” she said.
I thanked her and accepted. She was curious to hear about Asquith and its people, and I told her all I knew.
“I should like to meet some of them,” she explained, “for we intend having a cotillon at Mohair,—a kind of house-warming, you know. A party of Mr. Cooke's friends is coming out for it in his car, and he thought something of inviting the people of Asquith up for a dance.”
I had my doubts concerning the wisdom of an entertainment, the success of which depended on the fusion of a party of Mr. Cooke's friends and a company from Asquith. But I held my peace. She shot a question at me suddenly:
“Who is this Mr. Allen?”
“He registers from Boston, and only came a fortnight ago,” I replied vaguely.
“He doesn't look quite right; as though he had been set down on the wrong planet, you know,” said Mrs. Cooke, her finger on her temple. “What is he like?”
“Well,” I answered, at first with uncertainty, then with inspiration, “he would do splendidly to lead your cotillon, if you think of having one.”
“So you do not dance, Mr. Crocker?”