"I'm so sorry, dear," said Lady Coote placidly. "I've asked him now, so it can't be helped. Pick up that ball of pink wool, will you, Oswald?"
Sir Oswald complied, his face black as thunder. He looked at his wife and hesitated. Lady Coote was placidly threading her wool needle.
"I particularly don't want Thesiger down next week-end," he said at last. "I've heard a good deal about him from Bateman. He was at school with him."
"What did Mr. Bateman say?"
"He'd no good to say of him. In fact, he warned me very seriously against him."
"He did, did he?" said Lady Coote thoughtfully.
"And I have the highest respect for Bateman's judgment. I've never known him wrong."
"Dear me," said Lady Coote. "What a mess I seem to have made of things. Of course, I should never have asked him if I had known. You should have told me all this before, Oswald. It's too late now."
She began to roll up her work very carefully. Sir Oswald looked at her, made as if to speak, then shrugged his shoulders. He followed her into the house. Lady Coote, walking ahead, wore a very faint smile on her face. She was fond of her husband, but she was also fond—in a quiet, unobtrusive, wholly womanly manner—of getting her own way.