After supper, which had taken the place of dinner at Hayslope Hall on these long summer evenings, he walked with his wife in the garden, and told her of what had happened.
She was more disturbed than he had been over William's telegram to Coombe, and his failure to communicate at the same time with him. "You're sure you didn't actually forbid him to go on?" she asked.
Yes, he was quite sure; but in answer to a further question he could not declare with such certainty that he had not written in a way that could arouse annoyance. "I'm afraid I did express myself rather strongly," he admitted. "But I always have said straight out what I meant to William, and he has never taken it like this. Besides, my impression is that I showed him, in what I wrote afterwards, that I didn't mean it seriously—or not so seriously as all that. I intended to, anyhow."
"Ah!" she sighed. "You ought to have shown me the letter before you sent it. I could have told you whether it was right or not. I wonder if Eleanor saw this telegram before William sent it! I'm sure to hear from her to-morrow, and I think you are sure to hear from William."
"William ought not to have done it," he said, in a tone of finality. "I can't think that he would have behaved like this a few years ago."
"Oh, my dear, of course he wouldn't."
"Why do you say that?" he asked in some surprise.
"It's quite plain, isn't it? William was nobody much then, compared to you. Now he is a notable, and expects to be treated as such."
"He has never shown that he expected us to treat him any differently."
"Oh, as long as we keep our places, and don't presume."