"Well, what about them?"
"Can't we--can't we do anything? Talk to them?"
"I just see myself talking to Errington!" murmured Jerry. "I'd about
as soon discuss its private and internal arrangements with a volcano!
My dear kid, it all depends upon Diana and whether she's content to
trust her husband or not. _I'd_ trust Max through thick and thin, and
no questions asked. If he blew up the Houses of Parliament, I should
believe he'd some good reason for doing it. . . . But then, I'm not
his wife!"
"Well, I shall talk to Diana," said Joan seriously. "I'm sure Dad
would, if he were here. And I do think, Jerry, you might screw up
courage to speak to Max. He can't eat you! And--and I simply hate to
see those two at cross purposes! They were so happy at the beginning."
The mention of matrimonial happiness started a new train of thought,
and the conversation became of a more personal nature--the kind of
conversation wherein every second or third sentence starts with "when
we are married," and thence launches out into rose-red visions of the
great adventure.
Presently the house door clanged, and a minute later Diana came into
the room. She threw aside her furs and looked round hastily.
"Where's Max?" she asked sharply.
"Not concealed beneath the Chesterfield," volunteered Jerry flippantly.
Then, as he caught a hostile sparkle of irritation in her grey eyes, he
added hastily, "He's in his study.
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