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Miss Vulliamy sighed.

“I feel very uneasy about June,” she declared. “George’ll find somebody else, I expect. Men are like that. But poor June Townshend ... I should hate her to think that my ... my husband——”

“June’s very intelligent,” said Virgil. “I’ll write and explain the position. Don’t worry about that. She’s most sympathetic. I’m sure she’ld be the first to——”

“Congratulate you?”

“Well, almost,” said Pardoner. “She’s an awful good sort, June.”

“What brutes men are,” said Sarah. “However, if you must have your wretched money, I suppose I shall have to give way. Incidentally, you might begin by choosing me a peach, will you?”

Virgil selected one carefully. Then he looked at Sarah.

“Tell me the worst,” he said. “Shall it be rough or smooth?”

“Smooth, of course. And don’t rush it. Peel it properly. Remember—you’re my slave now. Oh, and I’ld like some grenadine. I’m thirsty.”

Pardoner set down his knife.

“I beg,” he implored, “I beg that you will not disgrace me by supplanting this nectar by a tumbler of—of Schoolgirl’s Joy. I mean, I’ld rather order you a pint of draught stout. Stout may be coarse, but, at least, it’s got some body.”