‘Women’s sphere,’ suggested Tommy, waving his hand.
‘Twenty minutes’ work after breakfast every morning keeps the flag going to perfection. You have nothing to complain of, have you?’
‘Your housekeeping is so perfect, Tuppence, as to be almost monotonous.’
‘I do like gratitude,’ said Tuppence.
‘You, of course, have got your work,’ she continued, ‘but tell me, Tommy, don’t you ever have a secret yearning for excitement, for things to happen?’
‘No,’ said Tommy, ‘at least I don’t think so. It is all very well to want things to happen – they might not be pleasant things.’
‘How prudent men are,’ sighed Tuppence. ‘Don’t you ever have a wild secret yearning for romance – adventure – life?’
‘What have you been reading, Tuppence?’ asked Tommy.
‘Think how exciting it would be,’ went on Tuppence, ‘if we heard a wild rapping at the door and went to open it and in staggered a dead man.’
‘If he was dead he couldn’t stagger,’ said Tommy critically.
‘You know what I mean,’ said Tuppence. ‘They always stagger in just before they die and fall at your feet, just gasping out a few enigmatic words. “The Spotted Leopard”, or something like that.’
‘I advise a course of Schopenhauer or Emmanuel Kant,’ said Tommy.
‘That sort of thing would be good for you,’ said Tuppence. ‘You are getting fat and comfortable.’
‘I am not,’ said Tommy indignantly. ‘Anyway you do slimming exercises yourself.’
‘Everybody does,’ said Tuppence. ‘When I said you were getting fat I was really speaking metaphorically, you are getting prosperous and sleek and comfortable.’
‘I don’t know what has come over you,’ said her husband.
‘The spirit of adventure,’ murmured Tuppence. ‘It is better than a longing for romance anyway. I have that sometimes too. I think of meeting a man, a really handsome man –’
‘You have met me,’ said Tommy. ‘Isn’t that enough for you?’
‘A brown, lean man, terrifically strong, the kind of man who can ride anything and lassoes wild horses –’
‘Complete with sheepskin trousers and a cowboy hat,’ interpolated Tommy sarcastically.
‘– and has lived in the Wilds,’ continued Tuppence. ‘I should like him to fall simply madly in love with me. I should, of course, rebuff him virtuously and be true to my marriage vows, but my heart would secretly go out to him.’
‘Well,’ said Tommy, ‘I often wish that I may meet a really beautiful girl. A girl with corn coloured hair who will fall desperately in love with me. Only I don’t think I rebuff her – in fact I am quite sure I don’t.’
‘That,’ said Tuppence, ‘is naughty temper.’
‘What,’ said Tommy, ‘is really the matter with you, Tuppence? You have never talked like this before.’
‘No, but I have been boiling up inside for a long time,’ said Tuppence. ‘You see it is very dangerous to have everything you want – including enough money to buy things. Of course there are always hats.’
‘You have got about forty hats already,’ said Tommy, ‘and they all look alike.’
‘Hats are like that,’ said Tuppence. ‘They are not really alike. There are nuances in them. I saw rather a nice one in Violette’s this morning.’
‘If you haven’t anything better to do than going on buying hats you don’t need –’
‘That’s it,’ said Tuppence, ‘that’s exactly it. If I had something better to do. I suppose I ought to take up good works. Oh, Tommy, I do wish something exciting would happen. I feel – I really do feel it would be good for us. If we could find a fairy –’
‘Ah!’ said Tommy. ‘It is curious your saying that.’
He got up and crossed the room. Opening a drawer of the writing table he took out a small snapshot print and brought it to Tuppence.
‘Oh!’ said Tuppence, ‘so you have got them developed. Which is this, the one you took of this room or the one I took?’
‘The one I took. Yours didn’t come out. You under exposed it. You always do.’
‘It is nice for you,’ said Tuppence, ‘to think that there is one thing you can do better than me.’
‘A foolish remark,’ said Tommy, ‘but I will let it pass for the moment. What I wanted to show you was this.’
He pointed to a small white speck on the photograph.
‘That is a scratch on the film,’ said Tuppence.
‘Not at all,’ said Tommy. ‘That, Tuppence, is a fairy.’
‘Tommy, you idiot.’
‘Look for yourself.’
He handed her a magnifying glass. Tuppence studied the print attentively through it. Seen thus by a slight stretch of fancy the scratch on the film could be imagined to represent a small winged creature on the fender.
‘It has got wings,’ cried Tuppence. ‘What fun, a real live fairy in our flat. Shall we write to Conan Doyle about it? Oh, Tommy. Do you think she’ll give us wishes?’
‘You will soon know,’ said Tommy. ‘You have been wishing hard enough for something to happen all the afternoon.’
At that minute the door opened, and a tall lad of fifteen who seemed undecided as to whether he was a butler or a page boy inquired in a truly magnificent manner.
‘Are you at home, madam? The front-door bell has just rung.’
‘I wish Albert wouldn’t go to the Pictures,’ sighed Tuppence, after she had signified her assent, and Albert had withdrawn. ‘He’s copying a Long Island butler now. Thank goodness I’ve cured him of asking for people’s cards and bringing them to me on a salver.’
The door opened again, and Albert announced: ‘Mr Carter,’ much as though it were a Royal title.
‘The Chief,’ muttered Tommy, in great surprise.
Tuppence jumped up with a glad exclamation, and greeted a tall grey-haired man with piercing eyes and a tired smile.
‘Mr Carter, I am glad to see you.’
‘That’s good, Mrs Tommy. Now answer me a question. How’s life generally?’
‘Satisfactory, but dull,’ replied Tuppence with a twinkle.
‘Better and better,’ said Mr Carter. ‘I’m evidently going to find you in the right mood.’
‘This,’ said Tuppence, ‘sounds exciting.’
Albert, still copying the Long Island butler, brought in tea. When this operation was completed without mishap and the door had closed behind him Tuppence burst out once more.
‘You did mean something, didn’t you, Mr Carter? Are you going to send us on a mission into darkest Russia?’
‘Not exactly that,’ said Mr Carter.
‘But there is something.’
‘Yes – there is something. I don’t think you are the kind who shrinks from risks, are you, Mrs Tommy?’