Love at Second Sight | Page 4

middle class between thirty and forty; he looked as manly (through being sunburnt from knocking a little ball over the links) as if he habitually went tiger-shooting; but, though not without charm, he had much less distinction than his wife. Most people smiled when Bruce's name was mentioned, and it was usual for his intimates to clap him on the back and call him a silly ass, which proves he was not unpopular. On the other hand, Edith was described as a very pretty woman, or a nice little thing, and by the more discriminating, jolly clever when you know her, and don't you forget it.
When Bruce told his wife that no-one had ever regretted consulting him on a difficult, secret, and delicate matter, Edith had said she was quite sure they hadn't. Perhaps she thought no-one had ever regretted consulting him on such a subject, simply because no-one had ever tried.
'Oh, please don't move, Edith,' he said, in the tone which means, 'Oh, please do move.' 'I like to see you comfortable.'
There was something in his manner that made her feel apologetic, and she changed her position with the feeling of guilt about nothing, and a tinge of shame for something she hadn't done, easily produced by an air of self-sacrifice Bruce was apt to show at such moments.
'Your hair's coming down, Edith,' he said kindly, to add to her vague embarrassment.
As a matter of fact, a curl by the right ear was only about one-tenth of an inch farther on the cheek than it was intended to be But, by this observation, he got the advantage of her by giving the impression that she looked wild, unkempt, and ruffled, though she was, in reality, exactly as trim and neat as always.
'Well--about the delicate matter you were going to talk over with me, Bruce?'
'Oh yes. Oh, by the way,' he said, 'before we go into that, I wonder if you could help me about something? You could do me a really great service by helping me to find a certain book.'
'Why, of course, Bruce, with pleasure. What is the book?' asked the amiable wife, looking alert.
Bruce looked at her with pity.
'What is the book? My dear Edith, don't you see I shouldn't have come to you about it if I knew what the book was.'
'I beg your pardon, Bruce,' said Edith, now feeling thoroughly in the wrong, and looking round the room. 'But if you can't give me the name of the book I scarcely see how I can find it.'
'And if I knew its name I shouldn't want your assistance.'
It seemed a deadlock.
Going to the bookcase, Edith said:
'Can't you give me some idea of what it's like?'
'Certainly I can. I've seen it a hundred times in this very room; in fact it's always here, except when it's wanted.'
Edith went down on her knees in front of the bookcase and cross-questioned Bruce on the physiognomy of the volume. She asked whether it was a novel, whether it was blue, whether it belonged to the library, whether it was Stevenson, whether it was French, or if it was suitable for the children.
To all of these questions he returned a negative.
'Suitable for the children?' he repeated. 'What a fantastic idea! Do you think I should take all this trouble to come and request your assistance and spend hours of valuable time looking for a book that's suitable for the children?'
'But, Bruce, if you request my assistance without having the slightest idea of what book it is, how shall I possibly be able to help?'
'Quite so ... quite so. Never mind, Edith, don't trouble. If I say that it's a pity there isn't more order in the house you won't regard it, I hope, dear, as a reproach in any way. If there were a place for everything, and everything in its place--However! Never mind. It's a small matter, and it can't be helped. I know, Edith dear, you were not brought up to be strictly orderly. Some people are not. I don't blame you; not in the least. Still, when Dilly grows up I shall be sorry if--'
'Bruce, it's nothing to do with order. The room is perfectly tidy. It's a question of your memory. You don't remember the name of the book.'
'Pardon me, it's not a question of remembering the name; that would be nothing. Anyone can forget a name. That wouldn't matter.'
'Oh, then, you mean you don't even know in the least what you want?'
At this moment Bruce decided it was time to find the book, and suddenly sprang, like a middle-aged fawn, at the writing-table, seizing a volume triumphantly.
'There it is--the whole time!' he said, 'staring at you while you are helplessly looking for it. Oh, Edith, Edith!' he laughed amiably. 'How like a woman that is! And