Hyacinth


'There's only one thing I must really implore you, Edith,' said Bruce
anxiously. '_Don't_ make me late at the office!'

'Certainly not, Bruce,' answered Edith sedately. She was seated opposite
her husband at breakfast in a very new, very small, very white flat in
Knightsbridge--exactly like thousands of other new, small, white flats.
She was young and pretty, but not obvious. One might suppose that she
was more subtle than was shown by her usual expression, which was merely
cheerful and intelligent.

'Now I have to write that letter before I go,' Bruce exclaimed, starting
up and looking at her reproachfully. 'Why didn't I write it last night?'

Edith hadn't the slightest idea, as she had heard nothing of the letter
before, but, in the course of three years, she had learnt that it saved
time to accept trifling injustices. So she looked guilty and a little
remorseful. He magnanimously forgave her, and began to write the letter
at a neat white writing-table.

'How many g's are there in "Raggett"?' he asked suspiciously.

She didn't answer, apparently overtaken by a sudden fit of absence of
mind.

'Only one, of course. How absurd you are!' said her husband, laughing,
as he finished the letter and came back to the table.