Part 19 (1/2)

”Didn't you know?”

”How could I possibly?”

”No, you couldn't of course, but I never thought it of _you_.”

”Nor I of you,” he answered. ”I'll test you. 'The cow is in the garden.'”

”'The cat is in the lake,'” she answered instantly.

”'The pig is in the hammock?'”

”'What difference _does_ it make?'” she shouted triumphantly.

For the rest of the drive to Brighton their laughter never stopped.

Nothing draws a man and a woman together as laughter does--when it is intimate to themselves, a mutual language not to be understood of others. They became extraordinary friends, as if they had known each other from childhood, and the sunset fires in all their glory pa.s.sed unheeded.

Although he could hear nothing of what they said, there was a sympathetic grin upon the chauffeur's face at the ringing mirth behind him.

”It's your turn to suppose now, Mr. Lothian.”

”Well--wait a minute--oh, let's suppose that Mr. Podley once wrote a moral poem--you to play!”

Rita thought for a minute or two, her lips rippling with merriment, her young eyes s.h.i.+ning.

A little chuckle escaped her, her shoulders began to shake and then she shrieked with joy.

”I've got it, splendid! Listen! It's to inculcate kindness to animals.

”I am only a whelk, Sir, Though if you but knew, Although I'm a whelk, Sir, The Lord made me too!”

”Magnificent!--your turn.”

”Well, what will the t.i.tle of the Toftrees' next novel be?”

”'Cats' meat!'--I say, do you know that I have invented the one _quite_ perfect opening for a short story. You'll realise when you hear it that it stands alone. It's perfect, like Giotto's Campanile or 'The Hound of Heaven.'”

”Tell me quickly!”

”Mr. Florimond awoke from a deep sleep. There was n.o.body there but the Dog Trust.”

”You are wonderful. I see it, of course. It's style itself! And how would you end the story? Have you studied the end yet?”

”Yes. I worked at it all the time I was in Italy last year. You shall hear that too. Mr. Florimond sank into a deep sleep. There was n.o.body there but the Dog Trust.”

... He told her of his younger days in London when he shared a flat with a brother journalist named Pa.s.she.

”We lived the most delightful freakish lives you can imagine,” he said.

”When we came into breakfast from our respective bedrooms we had a ritual which never varied. We neither looked at each other nor spoke, but sat down opposite at the table. We each had our newspaper put in our place by the man who looked after us. We opened the papers and pretended to read for a moment. Then Basil looked over the top of his at me, very gravely. 'We live in stirring times, Mr. Lothian!' he would say, and I used to answer, 'Indeed, Mr. Pa.s.she, we do!' Then we became as usual.”