“Not in the least. It would disgust you and me in a disproportionate manner to do it, and it wouldn’t disgust a gardener at all. So it is clearly a case for coöperative labour.”
“You exhibit a mind full of true grasp, Mr. Hugh,” said she. “Let us go and find a gardener. The slug has dined; he will not go away.”
“When he dines he sleeps,” remarked Hugh.
“And you are staying at St. Olaf’s?” she asked, as they walked off down the border, leaving the unused apparatus of death behind. “Now, to be candid: am I a little in disgrace with Canon Alington?”
“Yes,” said Hugh promptly.
“And is it because I asked them to dine on Sunday evening? Ah, I knew it was! How stupid and unadaptable one is! I put dinner at half-past eight on purpose so that it would be quite free of church, and it never occurred to me at the time that very likely he did not dine out on Sunday. When will one learn to put oneself in the position and environment of other people?”
“Are you very lacking in that?” asked he.
“Yes. Oh, I can see other points of view to a certain extent when I am taken by the scruff of the neck, and held down to them, but I never anticipate or imagine them. And how is one to learn that sort of thing? And what of Peggy and town generally?”
“I dined with her two nights ago, and we went to ‘Gambits’ again. It is still crammed.”
“Ah, one wondered whether the enthusiasm of the first night was likely to last. It seems as if it would now. And have you been more than that twice?”