“Ah,” said Pardoner, “the rot’s set in. The tumult and the shouting
dies, The Closeleys and the Dores depart. I’ll bet old Chippendale
doesn’t last two minutes alone.”
“Got it in one,” said Sarah. “She’s up. Her guests haven’t finished, but
she hasn’t seen that. She’s ordering coffee in the lounge. I’m afraid
she’s terribly upset.”
“Good,” said Virgil. “And we’ve shortened ‘Slam It’s’ life. When I
called you ‘darling’ just now, I thought she was going to founder.
Incidentally, I said it very well, didn’t I?”
“Like a professional,” said Miss Vulliamy. “You must have said it
before.”
“Never, darling.”
“O-o-oh,” said Sarah. “Any way, you needn’t say it now. The audience has
dispersed.”
“But it comes so natural.”
Sarah tilted her chin.
“We are not amused,” she said stiffly. “And now to business. We’d better
be married about the end of the month. What about the twenty-fifth?”
Virgil consulted a note-book.
“Can’t be done,” he said. “I’m playing polo. I can manage the
twenty-fourth.”
“Don’t be a fool,” said his fiancée. “What about the honeymoon?”
After a lot of argument, Pardoner agreed to waive the polo, on the
understanding that the wedding-trip was restricted to fourteen days.
“Well, that’s that,” said Sarah. “Now then, where shall it be? I may say
that I insist upon a church.”
A church was at last selected and Pardoner promised to make the
necessary arrangements.
“The next thing,” said Miss Vulliamy, “is where to go. What about
Dinard?”
“As you please,” said Virgil. “I suppose that’s where Fulke’s going,” he
added carelessly.
Sarah shook her sweet head.
“Not till the first,” she replied. “Which brings us to June.”
“August,” corrected Virgil. “August. July—August—Sept——”
“June Townshend,” said Sarah shortly.
Pardoner started and dropped his cigarette.
“What about her?” he said uneasily. “She wouldn’t like Dinard. She’s
a—a clergyman’s daughter.”
Sarah bowed before a little gust of laughter.