On the moment the butler entered with a telegram.
Hugh tore it open.
“Clearly the twenty-five million pounds,” he said, “and I shall feel flat. Oh, no; it’s Peggy! May she come down for the night? Not reply paid either. Sixpence to the bad instead of twenty-five million to the good. Yes, get me a form,” he said to the man.
For one moment an impulse flashed through Edith’s mind, bidding her say, “It’s our last day here, Hugh.” But she did not give voice to it.
“What luck!” said he. “And we’ll all travel up together to-morrow.”
Then he looked up at his wife, and all she had thought came into his mind also.
“Or shall we say ‘No’?” he asked. “Why, it’s our last evening here. Let’s spend it alone instead. Shall we?”
“It would be rather nice,” said Edith.
“Let us then. We are dining with her to-morrow, aren’t we?”
The man had brought back a telegraph form, and Hugh filled it in.