Harvey moved in his seat, with a bored, not to say irritated, expression.
"Anything more?" he demanded.
"But you do agree with me?"
"Certainly. I am sorry you count me capable of injustice towards anybody."
"Oh, I did not mean—Pray don't misunderstand me! You don't mind my having said so much, do you? I thought I might, for once."
"You are at liberty to say what you choose, of course. I should not be sorry if I might, for once, have half-an-hour's peace."
"Harvey!" and tears rushed to her eyes. "Half-an-hour, after—"
"Yes, of course," he broke in. "But I should like a little longer. I beg your pardon for being unsociable," and there was a touch of apology in his manner. "I really have a wretched headache to-day, and this sort of discussion doesn't improve matters."
"Have you? Oh, I am sorry. Why didn't you tell me sooner? I'll leave you directly—only just one word," and her chest heaved. "You are not really vexed with me, are you?"
"There's nothing to be vexed about. Except that I don't wish to see my wife transposed into a feeble imitation of Hermione. As I once told you, I do not admire her style. All I beg is that you don't discuss these questions with anybody except myself."