"Yes, rather!" said Savile. "And I don't think he would come home if he thought there was going to be a row of any kind. Lots of people love rows. He doesn't."
She looked rather at a loss, and then said, "Well, what would you do if you were in my place?"
He waited a minute and then said: "Don't you always write to him, when he's away, as if you were enjoying yourself?"
"Yes."
"Doesn't he ever think that there's a good deal of Wilton one—way or another?"
"I think he has," she said, brightening up a little.
"Well, for heaven's sake don't try that with Chetwode! The more he was riled, the more he'd say to himself, 'Of course she's enjoying herself. There's no harm in it. No hurry to go back.'"
"Chetwode," said Felicity, "is one of those very English men who would never own they're jealous unless things came to extremities, which, of course, naturally, they never would."
"Look here, you're making a fool of yourself," said Savile. "You're making yourself miserable over nothing at all." He stood up. "Don't do anything till after lunch, perhaps not till this evening. You've just had a bit of a shock. You'll find you're wrong. Telephone when you want me."
He kissed her and went away.