"Long may you live to say so," he exclaimed, "but waltzing with the thermometer at 100, I should call the dance of death. Mind you don't overdo it, Lena mia," and he looked at her narrowly.
Lena Wilkinson was a delicate woman, thin and worn, with an insatiable appetite for excitement and amusement. Her social triumphs and secret labours drew heavily on the bank of a frail constitution, and no one but herself ever guessed how often she trembled on the verge of a serious breakdown.
"I say," resumed Gascoigne, "I came to ask if I may take Angel for a drive this evening? You have no objection, have you?" he added, as Mrs. Wilkinson's expression conveyed blank amazement. "At any rate, it will clear her out of Wilkinson's path for a couple of hours," he concluded persuasively.
"But she will think so much of it, and be so flattered and cock-a-hoop," protested her mother.
"Lena," and his eyes sparkled angrily, "do you grudge the poor kid even this little pleasure?"
"No, I don't," hastily relenting, "and I'm horrid. I was thinking that you never took me out."
"I shall be only too honoured. You have but to name your own time. I thought you hated a two-wheeled trap, or I'd have offered long ago."
"It's quite true, I do loathe high dog carts and pulling trotters. I've no courage now, and that Sally of yours goes like an express train. Ten years ago, how I should have loved it! What a curse it is to have nerves!"
"I expect you want a change to the hills. Angel tells me you are not going to stir this hot weather. Mind you, Lena, it is a mistake."
"Oh, I know; but Richard declares that he cannot possibly afford two establishments, and he must stay down. Angel looks bleached. Three hot seasons are enough to take the colour out of anyone, and are trying to a child. That is what makes her so cross, and dainty, and discontented."