I have known him speak glowingly, and with unabated
enthusiasm, of 'a most interesting chap' he has met at his club,
referring to him as 'altogether delightful,' 'a charming
conversationalist,' and so on, until I have felt impelled to ask Henry
to bring this treasure home to dinner.
Then, after expending myself in the preparation of such things as _hors
d'oeuvres_ and iced cocktails and putting on my most becoming frock
Henry has walked in with a veritable monster of a man. You know the
kind I mean. Quite good and God-fearing and all that, but with one of
those dreadful clematis moustaches which cling half over the face,
beginning at the nostrils and curling under the chin, a form which
undulates in the region of the waistcoat, and a slow and pompous
conversation (mainly devoted to the discussion of politics in the
'fifties).
I remember, shortly after one of these visitations, Henry ringing me up
on the 'phone and asking if it was convenient to bring a man home to
dinner that evening.
'What is he like?' I inquired, still smarting under recent experiences,
'has he much moustache--I mean, is he nice?'
Henry paused. 'Oh, all right. I don't know whether you'd care for
him. Perhaps I'd better not----'
'Yes, bring him if you want to, dear,' I conceded. I am not one of
those fussy wives. I like Henry to feel that he can bring a friend
home whenever he likes; but on this occasion I did not make unusual
preparations.
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