[And there, between one beat and the next, so much of Wysteria's rollicking broad good temper—gossipy though the mood might be, it could hardly be described as poor—narrows away and sours distinctly.

She takes a sip from her cup. When she speaks, Wysteria is all lightness and throwaway unconcern. Or is certainly attempting to be that.]

Did he? Well, I suppose it should come as no surprise that he saw no reason to be discreet about the thing.

[A further prim sip is taken.]

Yes, we argued. But I believed it and indeed the very point of contention in question to be a thing of the past.