"Same idea. Look here, Felicity, you're a bit off colour. It's about Chetwode. He doesn't know it. He ought to."
"Somehow I can't tell him I hate his being away. When he's here there's no need. Besides it's pride, or the family obstinacy."
"Look here, if I could go to Wales for myself, I can go to—what's the name of the place—for you. I'll go off this morning, and pretend I've come to help Chetwode to dig up old cabinets and things. I'll bring him back, give him a hint that people talk. Oh, I know how to do it—and there you are."
"My dear boy, how sweet of you! But it must come from yourself, mind. Perhaps you'd better not. Then I shall see him to-night? You'll bring him."
"I'll undertake to—if you'll give up your Savoy."
Felicity hesitated. "I'll ask them to dine here. I should be too nervous alone. Then you will just come in with Chetwode as early as you can this evening!" (She clapped her hands.) "This evening, won't you? He'll be at the village this afternoon, you know. He says he'll return to-morrow."
"And to-morrow he'll go straight on to York for the races. He only puts it off because he doesn't know you want him. My dear old girl, this has got to be put straight. Now, then, shut up, Felicity!"
"But, Savile, darling—pet! Suppose——"
"Pass me the Bradshaw!"
Felicity made no objection. He again started off for a long and tedious journey. He was supported by the feeling he was doing the right thing, and by re-reading the programme of the Craig-y-nos concert and remembering the look he firmly believed SHE had given him.