Challis pushed the door to in the man's face with something like an oath. Then at last he got a moment's leisure for his overdue kiss, which he paid liberally, as he said: "Well, it _is_ jolly to be back, at any rate! How are the kids?" For, whatever the malady he had made the awkward name for had been, he wasn't going to show any consciousness of it.
"The children you mean? There's nothing the matter with them that I know of. Now make haste; because it's a small leg. If I'd thought you were going to be so late it could have been rump-steak."
Challis looked at his watch. "H'm!" said he. Which meant that seven-forty was not so enormously late, and really more elastic arrangements might have been contrived. "I shouldn't have time for a warm bath, should I?"
"I must tell Elizabeth Barclay, then. I dare say she can keep the meat back. Only say!"
"Oh, it don't matter, if there's any difficulty...."
"My dear!--why should there be any difficulty! You've only got to _say_.... Well!--am I to tell Elizabeth Barclay, or am I not?"
Challis decided, and said. That is, he did not formulate special instructions, his words being merely, "Half-past, then. I'll be sure not to be later," and went straight away to get a bath. It is the greatest of luxuries, as we all know, after a journey, and Challis had made up his mind to have one the moment he detected a flavour of roasting, because that implied plenty of hot water in the bath-room.
Those who measure events only by the bounce they manifest--by their rapidity, or unexpectedness, or by the clamour that accompanies them--will wonder why any narrator of a story should think such flat incident worth recording. But observe!--it was the very flatness of this conversation that gave it its importance, coming as it did on the top of the exhilaration of Mr. Challis's visit, and his parting with that large and lively company of friends less than two hours ago. It has its place--this flatness has--in the lives of these two folk we write of, and really accelerates the story, although it is certainly slow in itself.
How very much Challis would have preferred it if his wife had said, "I won't kiss you if you swear," and had then done it _quandmême_! His mind--a fictionmonger's--reconstructed his reception with things more palatable for Marianne to say, this one among them. Another thing he would have liked, quite inexplicably, was, "Well!--how's the fascinating Judith?" Possibly this was because he would have welcomed help from without to convince him he was indifferent about the young woman. The answer he imagined for himself, which would have been pleasant for him to give, was, "She's coming to see you next week, Polly Anne. So get your best bib and tucker ready!" But there had been none of this, nor the laughter--purely imaginary--that he garnished it with. Only the flatness as recorded.