Mrs.Hanway-Harley would not have uttered a whisper of objection had he openly declared for an absence of a fortnight, with the design of playing poker, nothing but poker, every moment of the time.
But it is the vain fancy of some men to believe themselves and their company those things most longed for at home, when the precise converse of such condition of longing is the one which exists, and this fancy was among the weaknesses of Mr.Harley.Besides, he revered the truth so much that, like his Sunday coat, he employed it only on rare occasions, and when advantage could be arrived at in no other way.

Truth was a pearl, and Mr.Harley felt strongly against casting it before the swine of every common occurrence, when mendacity would do as well or better.
Wherefore, and to keep his hand in, Mr.Harley invariably romanced in whatever he vouchsafed of himself or his habits to Mrs.Hanway-Harley.
Nor was this so unjust as at a first blink it might seem.

If Mr.Harley misled Mrs.Hanway-Harley as to his personal movements, she in return told him nothing at all of her own, the result, to wit, total darkness, being the same for both.

However, they were perfectly satisfied, rightly esteeming the situation one wherein, if ignorance were not bliss, at least it was folly to be wise.
The winter evening, still, not cold, was clear and crisp, with the snow squeaking cheerfully under foot, and Mr.Harley waddled on his way towards Storri's door in that blandness of mood which comes to one whose wine and dinner and stomach are in comfortable accord.

Waddled is the word; for with his short legs, and that profundity of belt proper to gentlemen who have reached the thither side of middle age, and given years to good eating and drinking, Mr.Harley had long since ceased to walk.
Mr.Harley was not surprised by the urgent character of Storri's summons.