“D’you realize, Oliver, that this is our wedding-day?”
Letter in hand, Oliver Pauncefote looked up.
“By Jove, so it is,” he said. “May the eighth. So it is. Many happy
returns, m’dear.”
Jean Ludlow Pauncefote did not reply. For a moment she stood staring at
her reflection in the tall pier-glass. Then she slid slowly out of her
striking cloak, threw this across a chair, lighted a cigarette, and
flung herself upon the bed.
“What did you think,” she demanded, “that marriage was going to be
like?”
Her husband lowered his letter in some surprise.
“My dear,” he said, “it is now a quarter of three, and two bottles of
’98 Mumm require sleeping off. If we must search each other’s
hearts——”
“_In vino veritas_,” said Jean. “Go on.”
Oliver put down his letter and took off two coats. Then he bestrode a
chair, pulled up his shirt-sleeves, and proceeded to fill a pipe.
“Say it again,” he said.
“What did you think,” said Jean, “that marriage was going to be like?”
Her husband reflected, frowning.