“Then, why didn’t you tell me?”
After all diplomatic truth would serve her purpose. And she proceeded to use extremely misleading accuracy.
“Because Edith knows it herself,” she said; “and as a matter of fact, went to see Sir Thomas yesterday, so there is no need for you to go. In any case, Hugh, you can’t spring a doctor on a grown-up person, as if she was a child. But I know she saw Sir Thomas yesterday. In fact”—Peggy paused a moment, wondering how far astray truth-telling would lead her—“in fact, I went with her.”
“And what did he say?” asked Hugh, with inconvenient abruptness.
Peggy looked firmly out of the window.
“Oh! what doctors always say; avoid over-excitement and curried prawns, and hot rooms and fatigue.”
“Then, did he know she was going to Munich?”
“Yes; oh, yes—I am certain of that! He—he encouraged her to go.”
Peggy was beginning to feel slightly feverish with the strain of this, and there was a heartache in every word. But she had promised secrecy, and secrecy implied that she would do her best that Hugh should suspect nothing. But it was rather hard work, for Hugh showed no sign of being tired of questioning her. Diplomatic truth, too, having served its turn, was discarded, and diplomatic inexactitude had become necessary.
“She needed encouragement, then,” said Hugh. “She felt not quite up to it.”