“Bill, I’m getting intrigued. The things that George thinks important are so awfully limited. I think I must chuck Ranelagh. After all, I can go to Ranelagh any day. Tell George that I shall be awaiting him meekly at four o’clock.”
Bill looked at his wristwatch.
“It seems hardly worthwhile to go back before lunch. Come out and chew something, Virginia.”
“I’m going out to lunch somewhere or other.”
“That doesn’t matter. Make a day of it, and chuck everything all round.”
“It would be rather nice,” said Virginia, smiling at him.
“Virginia, you’re a darling. Tell me, you do like me rather, don’t you? Better than other people.”
“Bill, I adore you. If I had to marry someone—simply had to—I mean if it was in a book and a wicked mandarin said to me ‘Marry someone or die by slow torture,’ I should choose you at once—I should indeed. I should say, ‘Give me little Bill.’ ”
“Well, then—”
“Yes, but I haven’t got to marry anyone. I love being a wicked widow.”
“You could do all the same things still. Go about, and all that. You’d hardly notice me about the house.”
“Bill, you don’t understand. I’m the kind of person who marries enthusiastically if they marry at all.”
Bill gave a hollow groan.
“I shall shoot myself one of these days, I expect,” he murmured gloomily.