“I hate you,” said Peter promptly.
“You didn’t say that,” said she. “Your mouth said it. What are we to tell Nellie? Seriously, I mean. It will be nearly our last Sunday here, if we go to London in December.”
Peter made a short calculation.
“Dear Nellie,” he said, “we are so sorry we can’t come, because November 10th will be our last evening but twenty-one alone here, as we go up to town the next month.’ Will that do?”
“It sounds perfectly sensible,” said Silvia. “She’ll understand: it wasn’t so long ago that she was married. Then you’ll write that, will you?” she added hopefully.
“I will if you really wish it,” said he; “but it’s not very sane. You see ... well, some time we’ve got to begin behaving like ordinary human beings again. And, after all, Nellie is a very old friend of mine, and a very intimate one of yours. She’ll think it rather odd.”
Silvia sighed.
“A whole Saturday to Monday,” she said. “How selfish Nellie is! I never knew that before. But perhaps we had better go. Shall I answer it for you?”
Peter got up.
“No; I must write to her in any case,” he said.