Hilary grinned covertly. Mrs. Hilary pulled the lamp nearer, and took up her embroidery.
'Do you always work the same pattern?' said I.
Hilary kicked me gently. Mrs. Hilary made no direct reply, but presently she began to talk.
'I was just about Phyllis's age' (by the way, little Miss Phyllis was there) 'when I first saw Hilary. You remember, Hilary? At Bournemouth?'
'Oh—er—was it Bournemouth?' said Hilary, with much carelessness.
'I was on the pier,' pursued Mrs. Hilary. 'I had a red frock on, I remember, and one of those big hats they wore that year. Hilary wore'
'Blue serge,' I interpolated, encouragingly.
'Yes, blue serge,' said she fondly. 'He had been yachting, and he was beautifully burnt. I was horribly sunburnt—wasn't I, Hilary?'
Hilary began to pat the dog.
'Then we got to know one another.'
'Stop a minute,' said I. 'How did that happen?'
Mrs. Hilary blushed.
'Well, we were both always on the pier,' she explained. 'And—and somehow Hilary got to know father, and—and father introduced him to me.'
'I'm glad it was no worse,' said I. I was considering Miss Phyllis, who sat listening, open-eyed.
'And then, you know, father wasn't always
