“We’ve met, haven’t we? Oh yes, I remember. We met at lunch once. And you sent me some flowers. It was ever so kind of you,” she said, beaming.
She cracked another nut. She seemed to consider that the introductions were complete and that formality could now be dispensed with once more. She appeared at peace with all men.
The situation was slipping from Rollo’s grip. He continued to gape.
Then he remembered his grievance
“I think you might have let me know you weren’t coming to supper.”
“Supper?”
“I sent a note to the theatre this afternoon.”
“I haven’t been to the theatre to-day. They let me off because I was going to be married. I’m so sorry. I hope you didn’t wait long.”
Rollo’s resentment melted before the friendliness of her smile.
“Hardly any time,” he said, untruthfully.
“If I might explain, sir,” said Wilson.
“By George! if you can, you’ll save me from a brainstorm. Cut loose, and don’t be afraid you’ll bore me. You won’t.”
“Mrs. Wilson and I are old friends, sir. We come from the same town. In fact—”
Rollo’s face cleared.
“By George! Market what’s-its-name! Why, of course. Then she—?”
“Just so, sir. If you recollect, you asked me once if I had ever been in love, and I replied in the affirmative.”
“And it was—”
“Mrs. Wilson and I were engaged to be married before either of us came to London. There was a misunderstanding, which was entirely my—”
“Jim! It was mine.”
“No, it was all through my being a fool.”
“It was not. You know it wasn’t!”
Rollo intervened.
“Well?”
“And when you sent me with the flowers, sir—well, we talked it over again, and—that was how it came about, sir.”
The bride looked up from her walnuts.
“You aren’t angry?” she smiled up at Rollo.