Then, after expending myself in the preparation of such things as _hors
d'oeuvres_ and iced cocktails and putting on my most becoming frock
Henry has walked in with a veritable monster of a man. You know the
kind I mean. Quite good and God-fearing and all that, but with one of
those dreadful clematis moustaches which cling half over the face,
beginning at the nostrils and curling under the chin, a form which
undulates in the region of the waistcoat, and a slow and pompous
conversation (mainly devoted to the discussion of politics in the
'fifties).

I remember, shortly after one of these visitations, Henry ringing me up
on the 'phone and asking if it was convenient to bring a man home to
dinner that evening.

'What is he like?' I inquired, still smarting under recent experiences,
'has he much moustache--I mean, is he nice?'

Henry paused. 'Oh, all right. I don't know whether you'd care for
him. Perhaps I'd better not----'

'Yes, bring him if you want to, dear,' I conceded. I am not one of
those fussy wives. I like Henry to feel that he can bring a friend
home whenever he likes; but on this occasion I did not make unusual
preparations. After bidding Elizabeth turn the cold meat into curry
and judiciously water the soup to make it enough for four instead of
three, I tidied my hair and descended into the hall to see Henry
helping a man off with his overcoat--and such a man! It was the
dashing, the handsome, the witty Harvey Trevor (political writer on the
_Morning Sun_).