John was gazing moodily at the fire.
"So that's that," said Cecilia cheerfully, resting her hand softly on
his shoulder. "And _you_'d better be thinking what to say to make the
jolly old farmers stump up, my dear."
John cleared his throat.
"I've--er--decided not to come to the concert, dear," he said.
"Don't be ridiculous, John," said Cecilia, cooing like a covey (or
whatever it is) of doves. "Of course you're coming. I've arranged it
all."
"I think I'd rather stop at home, dear," he said; "I can--er--look
after Christopher and--er--there's a bit of work I have to finish."
"Christopher will be in bed, and your old work can wait, just as it
always has to."
"Well, you know, darling," said John, looking furtively at Margery and
me, "I'm not much use at these social affairs. I always say the wrong
thing."
"I know you do, dear," said Cecilia sweetly; "but they've all heard
you before, and nobody minds."
She paused a moment while John gulped.
"So that's settled, isn't it?" she said.
John gulped again.
* * * * *
[Illustration: WHITSUN AUCTION AT OUR BOARDING-HOUSE.
_Ruffled Veteran (whose partner has not led her suit against a
"three no-trumps"). "Not Having (realises the enormity of her
offence)_--ER--ER--PLAYED THE GAME BEFORE, PARTNER?"]
* * * * *