Peggy sighed, an elaborate, effective sigh.
“I was wondering when that would occur to you,” she observed.
Hugh let this pass.
“So I’ve just got to—to shout and sing?” he asked.
“Yes, if you want Edith to have a good time. I can tell you, too, that I have never seen her look forward with such pleasure to anything as this Munich trip. It’s taken her fancy.”
“I’m her man, then,” said Hugh.
Peggy thought it incumbent on her to tell Edith what had occurred, feeling that she might view this deliberate deception in a different light to the mere concealment which was all that she had contemplated. But Edith poured scorn on her scruples.
“Peggy, you are a true friend!” she said, “and how easily you seem to have—well, told the truth. It’s quite Bismarckian. Have you been practising lately?”
Peggy was slowly pulling off her gloves.
“No, I don’t think I have,” she said. “Oh! I was diplomatic with Hugh once in the summer, I remember, and I rather enjoyed it. But, oh! Edith, it gave me the heartache this afternoon. And what will Hugh think of me when he knows?”