“Are you coming?” Sylvia asked, biting her lips.
“No, I really can’t. It’s absurd. I don’t want this kind of people here. Besides, I must work.”
“You sha’n’t work,” Sylvia cried, in a fury, and she swept all his books and papers on the floor.
“I certainly sha’n’t come now,” he said, in the prim voice that was so maddening.
“Did you mean to come before I upset your books?”
“Yes, I probably should have come,” he answered.
“All right. I’m so sorry. I’ll pick everything up,” and she plunged down on the floor. “There you are,” she said when everything was put back in its place. “Now will you come?”
“No, my dear. I told you I wouldn’t after you upset my things.”
“Philip,” she cried, her eyes bright with rage, “you’re making me begin to hate you sometimes.”
Then she left him and went back to her guests, to whom she explained that her husband had a headache and was lying down. The ladies were disappointed, but consoled themselves by recommending a number of remedies which Miss Horne insisted that Sylvia should write down. When tea was finished, Miss Hobart said that their first visit to Green Lanes had been most enjoyable and that there was only one thing they would like to do before going home, which would be to visit the church. Sylvia jumped at an excuse for not showing them over the house, and they set out immediately through the garden to walk to the little church that stood in a graveyard grass-grown like the green lanes of the hamlet whose dead were buried there. The sun was westering, and in the golden air they lowered their voices for a thrush that was singing his vespers upon a moldering wooden cross.