‘I said poor old Jack-in-the-Box. So he is. I saw him in his box on Sunday at St. Paul’s. I went, of course. I’d go anywhere on the chance of seeing you. And there he was, poor old back number, gassing away about love. What on earth he thinks <i>he</i> knows about it----’ ‘Perhaps----’ She hesitated. ‘Perhaps he knows a great deal. He has got’--she hesitated again--‘he has got a quite young wife.’ ‘Has he? Then he ought to be ashamed of himself. Old bone.’ She stared at him. ‘Old what?’ she asked. ‘Bone,’ said Christopher. ‘You can’t get love out of a bone.’ ‘But--but he loves her very much,’ she said. ‘Then he’s a rocky old reprobate.’ ‘Oh Christopher!’ she said, helplessly. It was the first time she had called him that, and it came out now as a cry, half of rebuke, half of horrified amusement; but in whatever form it came out the great thing to his enchanted ears was that it had got out, for from that to Chris would be an easy step. ‘Well, so he is. He shouldn’t at that age. He should pray.’ ‘Oh Christopher!’ cried Catherine again. ‘But she loves him too.’ ‘Then she’s a nasty girl,’ said Christopher stoutly; and after staring at him a moment she went off into a fit of laughter, and laughed in the heavenly way he had already seen her laugh once before--yes, that was over Stephen too--so it was; Stephen seemed a sure draw--with complete abandonment, till she had to pull out her handkerchief to wipe her eyes. ‘I don’t mind your crying that sort of tears,’ said Christopher benignly, ‘but I won’t have any others.’ ‘Oh,’ said Catherine, trying to recover, diligently wiping her eyes, ‘oh, you’re so funny--you’ve no idea how funny----’ ‘I can be funnier than that,’ said Christopher proudly, delighted that he could make her laugh. ‘Oh, don’t be--don’t be--I couldn’t bear it. I haven’t laughed like this since--I can’t remember when. Not for years, anyhow.’ ‘Was George at all like his furniture?’ ‘His furniture?’ ‘Well, you’re not going to persuade me that that isn’t George’s, all that solemn stuff in your drawing-room. Was he like that? I mean, because if he was naturally you didn’t laugh much.’ ‘Oh--poor darling,’ said Catherine quickly, leaving off laughing. He had been tactless. He had been brutal. He wanted to throw himself at her feet. It was the champagne, of course; for in reality he had the highest opinion of George, who not only was so admirably dead but also had evidently taken great care of Catherine while he wasn’t. ‘I say, I’m most awfully sorry,’ he murmured, deeply contrite,--whatever had possessed him to drag George into their little feast? ‘And I like George most awfully. I’m sure he was a thoroughly decent chap. And he can’t help it if he’s got a bit crystallised,--in his furniture, I mean, and still hangs round----’ His voice trailed out. He was making it worse. Catherine’s face, bent over her plate, was solemn.