"No. When?"
"Five days ago."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I haven't seen you."
"I mean--this evening."
I reached for her hand. "Will you forgive me, my dear Betty, for
remarking that for the last twenty minutes you have done all the
talking?"
"Is he badly hurt?"
She ignored my playful rejoinder. I noted the fact. Usually she
was quick to play Beatrice to my Benedick. Had I caught her off
her guard?
I told her all that I knew. She seated herself again on the piano-
stool.
"I hope Mrs. Boyce did not think me unfeeling for not referring to
it," she said calmly. "You will explain, won't you?"
Marigold entered, announcing dinner. We went into the dining-room.
All through the meal Bella, my parlour-maid, flitted about with
dishes and plates, and Marigold, when he was not solemnly pouring
claret, stood grim behind my chair, roasting, as usual, his
posterior before a blazing fire, with soldierly devotion to duty.
Conversation fell a little flat. The arrival of the evening
newspapers, half an hour belated, created a diversion. The war is
sometimes subversive of nice table decorum. I read out the cream
of the news. Discussion thereon lasted us until coffee and
cigarettes were brought in and the servants left us to ourselves.
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