“You tell me that Cousin James believed I was drunk,” she said. “Now you knew I was not. But you seem to have let it pass.”
Major Ames felt that more magnanimous assurances might be in place.
“There are some things best passed over,” he said. “Let sleeping dogs lie. I think the less we talk about last night the better. I hope I am generous enough not to want to rub it in, Amy, not to make you more uncomfortable than you are.”
Mrs. Ames sat down in a chair by the fireplace. A huge fire burned there, altogether disproportionate to the day, and she screened her face from the blaze with the morning paper. Also she made a mental note to speak to Parker about it.
“You are making me very uncomfortable indeed, Lyndhurst,” she said; “by not telling me what I ask you. Did you let it pass, when you saw James thought I was drunk?”
“Yes; he didn’t say so in so many words. If he had said so, well, I dare say I should have—have made some sort of answer. And, mind you, it was no accusation he made against you; he made an excuse for you!”
Mrs. Ames’ small, insignificant face grew suddenly very firm and fixed.
“We do not need to go into that,” she said. “You saw he thought I was drunk, and said nothing. And after that you mean to go over and shoot his pheasants. Is that so?”
“Certainly it is. You are making a mountain out of——”
“I am making no mountain out of anything. Personally, I don’t believe Cousin James thought anything of the kind. What matters is that you let it pass. What matters is that I should have to tell you that you must apologize to me, instead of your seeing it for yourself.”