8

It was nearly one in the morning when Mr. Abrahams came home.

He opened the conversation as he came into the bedroom. "I'm not a bit drunk," he said, "I haven't touched anything this evening. I've been making history."

"Where have you been, Monty, making your history? You sound excited."

"I went to that meeting, darling. The one in Canton Hall. I couldn't keep away. I got a sort of oh quite accidental punch in the eye, but I don't think it's going to colour. I was hit by a potato. At one time they were throwing quite a lot of potatoes. That's why I sound excited. But I'm not actually excited."

"I told you—"

"I know. But it was most interesting. I really didn't get a bit excited. I'll tell you all about it to–morrow. A lot of them were really hurt. I'll tell you."

She peered close up to his face.

"There's a sort of cut on that bruise, Monty. A nasty little cut."

"There was razor blades perhaps in that potato," said Mr. Abrahams. "They do that sometimes."