“It is usually different from it,” observed he.
This would not do. She tried something else.
“And Thurso?” she said. “How do you think he is?”
Villars looked at her in bland surprise.
“Very well, surely, is he not?” he said. “Why should you think otherwise?”
“Only something I heard about his calling at a chemist’s and racing home afterwards.”
“Indeed!” said Villars.
Lady Swindon was afraid there was no more to be got there, and he handed her into her launch.
“But I am so glad, so very glad you think he is well,” she said. “Do come and spend a Sunday with us some week. I will try to get Catherine to come and meet you.”
He murmured gratitude of the non-committal sort, and stood a little while looking after her launch, which sped like an arrow up-stream, raising a two-foot wave in its wake, and nearly upset half a dozen boats in its passage. Then he strolled back to the lawn again. He had not the faintest intention of staying with Lady Swindon, but, on the other hand, he did not at all desire to be on bad terms with her, for, little as he respected her, he had a profound respect for her supreme mischief-making capabilities. She had got hold of something about Thurso, too, and perhaps it was as well she had not seen him. In that case, his own bland assertion that he considered him very well would not have been of much use.