The sly turn of a
sentence gave many a double meaning; the subtle glance of the eye
intended no harm. Dobson's new toast to "fair women" earned a roar of
laughter, but afterwards Dobson was called to account by a husband who
realised. A man over in the corner was thumping aimlessly on the
piano; a golf fanatic was vigorously contending that he had driven 243
yards against the wind; a tennis enthusiast was lamenting the fact
that the courts were too soft to be used; there was a certain odour of
rain-soaked clothes in the huge room, ascendant even above the smell
of cigarettes. Altogether, it was a night that owed much to the
weather.
Mrs. Scudaway, dashing horsewoman and exponent of the free rein, was
repeating the latest story concerning an intimate friend of every one
present--and, consequently, absent.
"She's just sailed for Europe, and that good-looking actor friend of
the family happened to go on the same steamer," she was saying with a
joyous smile.
"Accidents will happen," remarked some one, benevolently.
"Where's her husband? I haven't seen him with her in months," came
from one of the men.
"Oh, they have two children, you know," explained Mrs.
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