He only replied, “Good-bye.” The ladies started off. Rickie lingered behind to whisper, “I would have it so. I would have you begin square together. I can’t talk yet—I’ve loved her for years—can’t think what she’s done it for. I’m going to write short stories. I shall start this afternoon. She declares there may be something in me.”
As soon as he had left, Tilliard burst in, white with agitation, and crying, “Did you see my awful faux pas—about the horsewhip? What shall I do? I must call on Elliot. Or had I better write?”
“Miss Pembroke will not mind,” said Ansell gravely. “She is unconventional.” He knelt in an arm-chair and hid his face in the back.
“It was like a bomb,” said Tilliard.
“It was meant to be.”
“I do feel a fool. What must she think?”
“Never mind, Tilliard. You’ve not been as big a fool as myself. At all events, you told her he must be horsewhipped.”
Tilliard hummed a little tune. He hated anything nasty, and there was nastiness in Ansell. “What did you tell her?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“What do you think of it?”