"He's the limit," said Chetwode, laughing.
"But you might tell me, dear Chetwode; it isn't really for her that you go there?"
"Really, Felicity! I hardly ever see her! She's always busy with her children or rattling her house-keeping keys. Oh, she's all right—suits Tregelly, poor chap! Are we through now?" he asked, with patience.
"No. Won't you kiss me and forgive me?"
"Presently," he said, turning a page of the paper.
"May I just say that nothing of this sort could ever have happened if—if you didn't go away just a little too much? From the very first you know you were always absolutely free. I've the greatest horror of bothering you, or tyrannising in any way, but don't you think it's gone a little too far? If we hadn't been rather separated, I couldn't have made such a mistake about you. Suppose you'd found, privately locked up, a similar portrait of Bertie Wilton, say, wouldn't you have thought things?"
"Wilton's an ass," said Chetwode. "But he does know. To give him his due, I couldn't have found a similar portrait of him. He isn't capable of allowing such a thing to exist."
"Well, say a good portrait," said Felicity. "Do let us be perfectly frank with each other."
"We will," said Chetwode. "I am rather sick of Wilton."
"He's really an awfully good boy," said Felicity.