“Yes,” said Peggy precipitately.
Then she considered the case.
“No, I won’t,” she said, “because I know it is not Hugh. Oh, dear! here’s a telegram.”
A servant handed it to her, and she tore it open in that silence which always takes possession of a small party when a telegram is opened, even when addressed to a person like Peggy, with whom correspondence was chiefly conducted by such means.
“Edith,” she announced. “She wants to come down here to-morrow for the night to see me particularly, and wants no reply unless not. What a curious parsimony of words people have over telegrams. No answer,” she said to the man.
“Where is she?” asked Toby.
“Down at Mannington; I heard from her yesterday. She said she meant to stop there for months and not stir.”
“Something at Mannington has stirred her,” remarked Mr. Crowfoot. “That is the sort of thing that always happens. One goes up to town and is fearfully busy all the week, and nothing happens, and then goes into the country for the week-end and finds nothing to eat except beef and—I beg your pardon,” he added.
Toby had finished his second helping of soufflée, refused dessert, and drank a glass of strictly forbidden port.
“I see Hugh Grainger will sing at the opera next year,” he said; “it was announced in the Daily Something.”