“Yes, we are. But about an hour afterwards I know you’ll find some sort of excuse either to go out, or to go into the library and read. Why can’t you read while I’m looking at you? Why not?”
“Don’t be always looking forward, meeting troubles half way,” he said jokingly. “Perhaps I sha’n’t read.” Then, after a moment’s pause: “Excuse my saying so, my dear, but if you sometimes read a book, or the papers, or saw more people, you would have more to tell me when we did meet, wouldn’t you?”
“It doesn’t matter about that. You can tell me what you’ve been reading or seeing. Who did you see at the picture gallery? Was Mrs. Kellynch there?”
“Look here”—he was looking at the paper—“would you like to go to the opera after dinner? Let’s go one of these days soon.”
“No; I shouldn’t like it at all.”
He stared at her in surprise.
“Why not, pray? I thought you enjoyed it the other night?”
“You enjoyed it,” she replied.
“I thought you seemed rather pleased with yourself when we went out, with all your furs and tiaras and things. You looked very smart,” he said pleasantly.
“Well, I tell you I hated it, Nigel.”