You see,
Brock," and his voice grew very tender, "she loves me. I'm sure of her.
There isn't a nobler wife in the world than mine. Nor a prettier one,
either," he concluded, with fine pride in his eyes. "You won't be
ashamed of her. You will be proud of the chance to point her out as your
wife, take my word for it." Then they set out for the Ritz.
"Roxbury," said Brock soberly, when they were in the Rue de la Paix,
after walking two blocks in contemplative silence, "my peace of mind is
poised at the brink of an abyss. I have a feeling that I am about to
chuck it over."
"Nonsense. You'll buck up when Edith has had a fling at you."
"I suppose I'm to call her Edith."
"Certainly, and I won't mind a 'dear' or two when it seems propitious.
It's rather customary, you know, even among the unhappily married. Of
course, I've always been opposed to kissing or caressing in public; it's
so middle-class."
"And I daresay Mrs. Medcroft will object to it in private," lamented
Brock good-naturedly.
"I daresay," said her husband cheerfully. "She's your wife in public
only. By the way, you'll have to get used to the name of Roxbury. Don't
look around as if you expected to find me standing behind your back when
she says, 'Roxbury, dear!' I shan't be there, you know. She'll mean you.
Don't forget that."
"Oh, I say," exclaimed Brock, halting abruptly, and staring in dismay at
the confident conspirator, "will I have to wear a suit of clothes like
that, and an eyeglass, and--and--good Lord! spats?"
"By Jove, you shall wear this very suit!" cried Medcroft, inspired.
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