“That’s a secret” (in the tone of voice of someone who wants to have the secret teased out of her. She was laughing to herself, and had a fattish parcel tucked under her arm).
“Oh! I suppose it’s all the same to you if the dinner’s uneatable.”
Evidently no interest was to be taken in the “secret.” The next effort was along the lines of cheerful common sense.
“Why didn’t you begin without me?”
“I don’t choose to. This is my home—or supposed to be—not a hotel” (in a tone of peevish protest).
She had gone past us up to the first-floor landing, and, like the Wedding-Guest, we could not choose but hear.
“I’m sorry, dear. I was getting something for tomorrow.”
“That’s no excuse. You’ve been chattering to some of your office friends in some teashop or other and forgetting all about what you were supposed to be doing. No, I don’t want any dinner now.”
“Oh, very well.”
He came running downstairs then and saw us. I think it gave him a shock, because he pulled himself up and smiled and said something vague. Then he turned and called up the stairs again:
“All right, my dear, I’ll be up in a minute.” His eyes were unhappy. There’s something wrong in this house—something more than a little misunderstanding about dinner time. I shouldn’t wonder if she gives this man a devil of a time—probably without meaning it, that’s the rub. Lathom, who is at the chivalrous age, was all for youth and beauty, of course, and wanted to hop out and sling the old boy into his own