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IN the carriage, going home, Basil—entirely forgetting that his evening had been spoiled—put his arm about his wife, and kissed her with a warmth which she discouraged mildly.
"Did you enjoy it?" she asked.
"Oh, fairly. I liked the food—and the wine"
"And Mary."
"I always like Mary. She's uncommonly amusing."
"She's more so since she got rid of Jack."
"Perhaps she isn't rid of him. Remember what we saw in the restaurant. Perhaps she likes him as a lover, though she didn't as a husband—eh?"
"You're wicked. So is she, rather. That's why you like her. I thought you seemed interested in Alice."
"Alice is interesting so long as she doesn't talk. She did that dance, or whatever you call it, well. That's the latest fad, I suppose. I'd like to paint her in that gold thing."
"Do—she'd be charmed. So long as someone will look at her she's happy."
"You're a little waspish, ain't you?" said Basil with amusement and another kiss.
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