There was nothing paltry in her criticism of her husband, nothing she would not have said to his face.  She was a woman who made you feel this, for sincerity was written all over her.  I could not help wondering why she gave Mr. Cooke line in the matter of household decoration, unless it was that he considered Mohair his own, private hobby, and that she humored him.  Mrs. Cooke was not without tact, and I have no doubt she perceived my reluctance to talk about her husband and respected it.

“We drove down to bring you back to luncheon,” she said.

I thanked her and accepted.  She was curious to hear about Asquith and its people, and I told her all I knew.

“I should like to meet some of them,” she explained, “for we intend having a cotillon at Mohair,—­a kind of house-warming, you know.  A party of Mr. Cooke’s friends is coming out for it in his car, and he thought something of inviting the people of Asquith up for a dance.”

I had my doubts concerning the wisdom of an entertainment, the success of which depended on the fusion of a party of Mr. Cooke’s friends and a company from Asquith.  But I held my peace.  She shot a question at me suddenly: 

“Who is this Mr. Allen?”

“He registers from Boston, and only came a fortnight ago,” I replied vaguely.

“He doesn’t look quite right; as though he had been set down on the wrong planet, you know,” said Mrs. Cooke, her finger on her temple.  “What is he like?”

“Well,” I answered, at first with uncertainty, then with inspiration, “he would do splendidly to lead your cotillon, if you think of having one.”

“So you do not dance, Mr. Crocker?”

I was somewhat set back by her perspicuity.

“No, I do not,” said I.

“I thought not,” she said, laughing.  It must have been my expression which prompted her next remark.

“I was not making fun of you,” she said, more soberly; “I do not like Mr. Allen any better than you do, and I have only seen him once.”

“But I have not said I did not like him,” I objected.

“Of course not,” said Mrs. Cooke, quizzically.

At that moment, to my relief, I discerned the Celebrity and Mr. Cooke in the hallway.

“Here they come, now,” she went on.  “I do wish Fenelon would keep his hands off the people he meets.  I can feel he is going to make an intimate of that man.  Mark my words, Mr. Crocker.”

I not only marked them, I prayed for their fulfilment.

There was that in Mr. Cooke which, for want of a better name, I will call instinct.  As he came down the steps, his arm linked in that of the Celebrity, his attitude towards his wife was both apologetic and defiant.  He had at once the air of a child caught with a forbidden toy, and that of a stripling of twenty-one who flaunts a cigar in his father’s face.

“Maria,” he said, “Mr. Allen has consented to come back with us for lunch.”