“As if I cared,” he said.
“Ah, but I do,” said Edith. “You catch cold so easily, too.”
Hugh went back to his seat.
“I don’t like your having colds,” he said, “independently of the fact that I mayn’t kiss you on your birthday. You had one in August; now you’ve got another. I’ve a good mind—” And then he stopped.
“Hugh, it’s very rude to begin sentences and not finish them,” said Peggy.
“Yes, isn’t it? By the way, all my music is down at Mannington. I must go and get a copy of ‘Tristan’ this afternoon, as I shall have to begin learning it up again at once. What are my ladies going to do?”
Peggy, it appeared, was at leisure, and offered to drive him where he wanted in the motor; Edith had “things,” so she comprehensively expressed it, and was at nobody’s disposal till tea. This, as a matter of fact, suited Hugh’s “good mind” very well, and soon after lunch he set out with Peggy. But no sooner were they alone than he announced a strangely disconcerting manœuvre.
“Yes, let’s go and get ‘Tristan’ first,” he said, “and then I want you to drop me at Sir Thomas Ransom’s. Edith’s got no business to have colds. I shall get him to come and see her. I’ve several times thought she wasn’t very well, but she always said she was. Do you think she’s well, Peggy?”
This was awkward, but after an extremely rapid consideration, Peggy concluded that she had a prior engagement of secrecy to Edith, which entailed what is elegantly called “diplomacy,” in dealing with Hugh.
“No, since you ask me, I don’t,” she began.