your wife?”
The answer—with slight variations—was Mr. A’s neat little apology, repeated by Mr. B.
“I am very sorry. Mrs. B has got a bad headache. She is subject to bad headaches. She begs me to make her excuses.”
Mr. and Mrs. Germaine glanced at one another. The husband’s face plainly expressed the suspicion which this second apology had roused in his mind. The wife was steady and calm. An interval passed—a silent interval. Mr. A and Mr. B retired together guiltily into a corner. My wife and I looked at the pictures.
Mrs. Germaine was the first to relieve us from our own intolerable silence. Two more guests, it appeared, were still wanting to complete the party. “Shall we have dinner at once, George?” she said to her husband. “Or shall we wait for Mr. and Mrs. C?”
“We will wait five minutes,” he answered, shortly—with his eye on Mr. A and Mr. B, guiltily secluded in their corner.
The drawing-room door opened. We all knew that a third married lady was expected; we all looked toward the door in unutterable anticipation. Our unexpressed hopes rested silently on the possible appearance of Mrs. C. Would that admirable, but unknown, woman, at once charm and relieve us by her presence? I shudder as I write it. Mr. C walked into the room—and walked in, alone.
Mr. Germaine suddenly varied his formal inquiry in receiving the new guest.
“Is your wife ill?” he asked.
Mr. C was an elderly man; Mr. C had lived (judging by appearances) in the days when the old-fashioned laws of politeness were still in force. He discovered his two married brethren in their corner, unaccompanied by their wives; and he delivered his apology for his wife with the air of a man who felt unaffectedly ashamed of it:
“Mrs. C is so sorry. She has got such a bad cold. She does so regret not being able to accompany me.”
At this third apology, Mr. Germaine’s indignation forced its way outward into expression in words.
“Two bad colds and one bad
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