Then, simultaneously, the two men groaned.
“Qué t—” began the Consul.
“Por favor,” broke in the other hoarsely, placing a well-manicured though shaky finger to his lips, and with a slightly worried look up the garden.
The Consul nodded. “Of course. You’re looking so fit, I see you can’t have been at the ball last night,” he added loudly and loyally, following the other’s gaze, though Mr. Quincey, who after all could not have been so fit, was still nowhere to be seen. He had probably been turning off the hoses at the main hydrant—and how absurd to have suspected a “plan” when it was so patently an informal call and the doctor had just happened to notice Quincey working in the garden from the drive. He lowered his voice. “All the same, might I take this opportunity of asking you what you
