“I don’t settle,” she said; “it settles itself. Of course you sing. Please have this sent at once, will you, Peggy?”
“Oh! but that’s rather sudden,” said Hugh. “You don’t consider me. I shall have no more fun now until it’s over. No cigarettes, no anything but scales. It may be awfully nice for you—I say, that sounds so gloriously conceited, but I won’t alter it—but it will absolutely spoil Munich for me.”
“Oh! Hughie, it crowns it for both of us,” said she.
“I travelled up with Mrs. Owen,” said Hugh, eating very rapidly, “and I think she’s going to the dogs, and if so, it’s your influence Edith. She smoked a cigarette in the train. I don’t think your influence is a very good one. You domineer, too: you domineer most frightfully. That sending of the telegram was mere brute force.”
“But you told me to settle. I did so. Why, Hugh, it is the most gorgeous thing that ever happened. It’s the best birthday present I ever received.”
Hugh dropped his knife and fork with a crash, and jumped up.
“Why, I remembered this morning,” he said, “and that silly telegram drove it out of my head again. Edith, my darling, many, many happy returns——”
He bent over her to kiss her, and, forgetful for the moment, she raised her face to his. Then, and it was like a stab to her, she remembered. Hugh’s face was close to hers, his lips all but touched her.
“Ah! no,” she cried quickly; “you mustn’t kiss me. I’ve—I’ve got a cold, and if I gave it you, you might not be able to sing. Thank you, dear, a thousand times, for your good wishes.”
Hugh looked at her for a moment in mild astonishment.