"I'm engaged to be married," he announced.

A rapturous outbreak of congratulation and self-applause broke out.

"Ah, we knew! We saw it coming! We foretold it weeks ago!"

"I'll bet you didn't," said Cushat-Prinkly. "If any one had told me at
lunch-time to-day that I was going to ask Rhoda Ellam to marry me and
that she was going to accept me I would have laughed at the idea."

The romantic suddenness of the affair in some measure compensated James's
women-folk for the ruthless negation of all their patient effort and
skilled diplomacy. It was rather trying to have to deflect their
enthusiasm at a moment's notice from Joan Sebastable to Rhoda Ellam; but,
after all, it was James's wife who was in question, and his tastes had
some claim to be considered.

On a September afternoon of the same year, after the honeymoon in Minorca
had ended, Cushat-Prinkly came into the drawing-room of his new house in
Granchester Square. Rhoda was seated at a low table, behind a service of
dainty porcelain and gleaming silver. There was a pleasant tinkling note
in her voice as she handed him a cup.

"You like it weaker than that, don't you? Shall I put some more hot
water to it? No?"