Hugh turned to Edith.
“Didn’t I say so?” he began.
“Hush!” said Edith. “Peggy, once upon a time there was a man who used to sit in Piccadilly Circus and tell stories to the public. At least, he was going to. But then he and another woman fell in love with each other, and she said, ‘I’—what was it?—‘I jolly well won’t have you telling stories any more in public!’ Wasn’t she right?”
Peggy turned a face of scorn.
“No, she was an ass,” she said.
“But why?” asked Hugh. “You said the man was right.”
“Of course. Oh, you dears, may I guess? It’s about the opera next year. Make him sing, Edith. Hughie, you are so elementary!”
It had been settled thus, and now this morning when he read the first two lines of this paragraph the whole scene had come back to him with extraordinary vividness. It was right somehow, according to the sisters, that he should go on with his life just as keenly as—no, more keenly, for his wife had spurred and stimulated him to work, than before; while it was right for her, if he proposed anything—a stroll on the downs, a saunter in the garden, a game of billiards—that she should join him, leaving the half-written word, the unfinished speech of her play. She did so, at any rate, and at this moment she came in rather hurriedly.
“Hughie, I never knew you were down,” she said. “I never heard you come. What a dreadfully uncomfortable breakfast! Why don’t you arrange things better? Oh, what a day! Isn’t it a shame for our last day here? But I suppose Providence can’t always arrange the weather just for us. Let’s light fires and pull down blinds.”
“I tried that one,” said Hugh.