"We're always havin' 'em. Any music?"
"No, no, nothing. There are endless dinners that night, and Mrs.
Crutchby's concert with Calve, and the ball. People will only run in and
say something silly and run out again."
"Who's comin'?"
"Everybody. All the tiresome dears that have had their cards left."
Lord Holme stared at his varnished boots and looked rather like a puzzled
boy at a /viva voce/ examination.
"The worst of it is, I can't be in the country lookin' at a horse that
night," he said with depression.
"Why not?"
She hastily added:
"But why should you? You ought to be here."
"I'd rather be lookin' at a horse. But I'm booked for the dinner to
Rowley at the Nation Club that night. I might say the speeches were too
long and I couldn't get away. Eh?"
He looked at her for support.
"You really ought to be here, Fritz," she answered.
It ended there. Lady Holme knew her husband pretty well. She fancied that
the speeches at the dinner given to Sir Jacob Rowley, ex-Governor of some
place she knew nothing about, would turn out to be very lengthy
indeed--speeches to keep a man far from his home till after midnight.
On the evening of the twelfth Lord Holme had not arrived when the first
of his wife's guests came slowly up the stairs, and Lady Holme began
gently to make his excuses to all the tiresome dears who had had their
cards left at forty-two Cadogan Square. There were a great many tiresome
dears.
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