Christopher could have bitten out his tongue. He was amazed at his own folly. Had ever any man before, he asked himself distractedly, dragged in the deceased husband on such an occasion? No kind of husband, no kind at all, could be mentioned with profit at a little party of this nature, but a deceased one was completely fatal. At one stroke Christopher had wiped out her gaiety. Even if she hadn’t been fond of George, she was bound in decency to go solemn directly he was brought in. But she was fond of him; he was sure she was; and his own folly in digging him up at such a moment was positively fantastic. He could only suppose it must be the champagne. Impatiently he waved the waiter away who tried to give him more, and gazed at Catherine, wondering what he could say to get her to smile again. She was looking thoughtfully at her plate. Thinking of George, of course, which was absolute waste of the precious, precious time, but entirely his own idiotic fault. ‘Don’t,’ he murmured beseechingly. She lifted her eyes, and when she saw his expression she couldn’t help smiling a little, it was such intense, such concentrated entreaty. ‘Don’t what?’ she asked. ‘Don’t think,’ he begged. ‘Not now. Not here. Except about us.’ ‘But,’ she said, ‘that’s exactly what I was doing till----’ ‘I know. I’m a fool. I can’t help somehow blurting things out to you. And yet if you only knew the things I’ve by a miracle managed <i>not</i> to blurt. Why, as if I didn’t know this is no place for George----’ Again. He had done it again. He snapped his mouth to, pressing his lips tight together, and could only look at her. ‘Perhaps,’ said Catherine smiling, for really he had the exact expression of an agonisedly apologetic dog, ‘we had better talk about George and get it over. I should hate to think he was something we didn’t mention.’ ‘Well, don’t talk about him much then. For after all,’ pleaded Christopher, ‘I didn’t ask <i>him</i> to dinner.’ And having said this he fell into confusion again, for he couldn’t but recognise it as tactless. Apparently--how grateful he was--she hadn’t noticed, for her face became pensively reminiscent (imagine it, he said to himself, imagine having started her off on George when things had been going so happily!) and she said, breaking up her toast into small pieces and looking, he thought, like a cherub who should, in the autumn sunshine, contemplate a respectable and not unhappy past,--how, he wondered, did a comparison with autumn sunshine get into his head?--she said, breaking up her toast, her eyes on her plate, ‘George was very good to me.’ ‘I’m sure he was,’ said Christopher. ‘<i>Any</i> man----’ ‘He took immense care of me.’ ‘I’m sure he did. <i>Any</i> man----’ ‘While he was alive.’ ‘Yes--while he was alive, of course,’ agreed Christopher; and remarked that he couldn’t very well do it while he wasn’t.