“Like what?” he asked. She had the same sensation of disbelief she had felt at the dinner table. One must be strangely innocent or strangely reckless to ask questions like that. George’s face shone in the flare of a match: he looked emptily solemn and pensive as men always do while lighting a pipe. Joyce felt almost as though there were a kind of conspiracy against her to make her take the lead in talking. “They fiddle away as though it was the most important night that ever happened,” she said, a little nervously. “As though they think it’s a First Night and the reviewers are here from the newspapers.” “It _is_ the most important night that ever happened,” said Phyllis slowly. “It’s _now_.” There was a queer frightened tremble in her voice. “There’ll be a moon a little later,” said George. He said it rather as though this would be creditable to him, as host. “No, George, don’t let there be a moon. Not everything at once, it’s too much.” Something in George’s outline showed that he thought Phyllis was merely chaffing him; but Joyce was more clairvoyant. For the first time she became aware of some reality in Phyllis: saw that she was more than just George’s wife. There was in her some buried treasure that no one had ever taken the trouble to hunt for. Why, she’s lovely, Joyce thought. In a sudden impulse she wanted to take Phyllis’s hand; her own fluttered liftingly in her lap; she restrained it, for she felt that she would want to kiss George before very long and it didn’t seem quite square to be in love with a man and his wife simultaneously. It would be extravagant, she supposed sadly. “We don’t need a moon,” she said, “with Mrs. Granville wearing that lovely silver dress.” “It makes me feel as though we ought to do something special,” said Martin. “We can have a game of Truth,” suggested George. No one showed much enthusiasm except Martin, who wanted to know how it was played. “Everyone must tell some thought he has had but didn’t say.” Ben and Ruth felt more certain than ever that the evening was going to be a failure. “A thought you’ve had _ever_?” asked Martin. “No, this evening.” “You suggested it, George; you can go first,” said Ruth. “Ruth evidently believes that unspoken thoughts are always terrible.” “They can’t be much more terrible than some of the things that were said at dinner,” Ruth retorted. “In this game you don’t get to the really interesting stuff until after several rounds, when people get warmed up. I’ll begin with a very small one. I was thinking that I mustn’t forget to put away the car.--Now Ruth, what’s yours?” “That Miss Clyde probably has a very becoming bathing suit.” “I was thinking I heard one of the children calling,” said Phyllis. “But it wasn’t, it was only a singing in my nose.” “What a funny nose,” said Martin. “Don’t you know how something seems to get caught in your nostril and makes a kind of singing when you breathe?”