He never, never forgot the expression of a certain brass porcupine that was somehow a penwiper; it seemed to belong to a world gone mad, where everything was something else, where porcupines _were_ penwipers, and his wife-- For suddenly his tongue had stopped.

He had caught sight of an enormous bunch of hothouse flowers in a vase on the floor by the writing-table.
Stanistreet's card was in the midst of the bunch, and a note from Stanistreet lay open on the writing-table.
There was an ominous pause while Tyson read it.

It was curt enough; only an offer of flowers and a ticket for the "Lyceum." Stanistreet's mind must have been seriously off its balance, otherwise he would never have done this clumsy thing.
Tyson strode to his wife's chair and tossed the letter into her lap.
"How long has Stanistreet been paying you these little attentions ?" She looked up smiling.

I am not sure that she did not think this new tone of Tyson's was part of the game they were playing together.

She had never taken him seriously.
"Ever since he found out that I liked them, I suppose." "Did it not occur to you that the things you like are rather expensive luxuries, some of them ?" "No.