"Where have you been?" he inquired.
"Only on the veranda," she said, a little too hurriedly; "I was so tired and my head ached—I wanted air."
He looked at her, dissatisfied and suspicious.
"You might have caught your death," he said; "I wonder at you."
"It was foolish," she returned, trying to laugh, "but the dinner was so tedious. Come into the drawing-room."
She made an effort to speak playfully, as Elsie might have done, but it was a failure.
"Your shoes are damp," he exclaimed suddenly; "you have been on the grass—pray what could take you there?"
"I—I just ran down the steps—I won't do so again."
Elsie heard their voices—she always heard everything—and opened the door.
"Come in here, you naughty people," she cried, laughing and speaking lightly, though there was a gleam in her eyes. "Oh! Mrs. Thompson, husbands and wives who have been separated are worse than lovers."