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course, it doesn't make any difference to me that she didn't see fit to invite us. She was one of your friends, not mine. I was only thinking that, since she always pretended to be so fond of you, it does seem curious the way we are invariably left out."
So Kennaston did not embroider verbally his theme—of Living Adequately—as he had felt himself in vein to do could he have found a listener.
"Some day," he ruefully reflected, " I shall certainly write a paper upon The Lost Art of Conversing with One's Wife. Its appeal, I think, would be universal."
Then his eggs came. . . .
