Gently but firmly he propelled his reluctant guest towards the dining-room. The last thing which Mr. James Staunton wanted was a drink in his present surroundings. In fact, Mr. James Staunton wanted more than words can express to retire to his lonely bachelor couch, where he could meditate at leisure on how best to extricate himself from a situation which had suddenly ceased to appeal to his somewhat peculiar sense of humour. Really he had credited Delia with a little more knowledge of the rules of the game. For months he’d been suggesting that there were possibilities by the sad sea waves at a delightful little fishing village down in Cornwall; or if that was too far afield he knew of a charming little hotel on the upper reaches of the Thames. In fact, the whole of his vast experience in such matters would have been at her disposal, and for no rhyme or reason, so far as he could see, she had continually refused his suggestion. And he was not used to being refused. Up to a point, of course, a little coyness and hesitation was delightful; but pushed to an extreme it became tedious. And then, to cap everything, on the very night when this large and somewhat uncouth-looking husband had returned from the back of beyond, Delia had become serious. Hector’s had not been a success; though he had manfully tried to be his own bright self. But there had been long silences—rather awkward silences—when he had been conscious that Delia was studying him—almost as if he was a stranger to her. And since he had an uneasy suspicion that he had not altogether shone during his meeting with her husband, he had found things increasingly difficult as the evening wore on. "Say when, Mr. Staunton." Massingham was pouring some whisky into a glass, and he stepped up to the table. "That’s enough, thanks. Yes, soda, please. And then I must be off." "The night is yet young," said his host, "and I rather want to have a talk with you, Mr. Staunton." The youngster looked up quickly at the words; then he glanced at Delia, who was staring at her husband with a slight frown. "Rather late, isn’t it?" he murmured. Massingham smiled genially. "Two—late! You surprise me, Mr. Staunton. I thought that was about the time some of you people started to live." He splashed some soda into his own glass. "It’s about my wife—about Delia. Absurd to call her anything but Delia to you, isn’t it? I mean, we three need not stand on formality." Staunton stiffened slightly; then, because he was painfully aware that his hands were beginning to tremble, he put them in his pockets. "Really, Mr. Massingham," he laughed slightly, "you’re very kind." Surely to Heaven she hadn’t told her husband—anything.