“I believe you knew she was here all the time. You didn’t want to wet your pretty skin.”
“You must not call me ‘she’ to the servants,” said Mrs. Failing as they walked away, she limping with a stick, he holding a great umbrella over her. “I will not have it.” Then more pleasantly, “And don’t tell him he lies. We all lie. I knew quite well they were coming by the four-six train. I saw it pass.”
“That reminds me. Another child run over at the Roman crossing. Whish—bang—dead.”
“Oh my foot! Oh my foot, my foot!” said Mrs. Failing, and paused to take breath.
“Bad?” he asked callously.
Leighton, with bowed head, passed them with the manuscript and disappeared among the laurels. The twinge of pain, which had been slight, passed away, and they proceeded, descending a green airless corridor which opened into the gravel drive.
“Isn’t it odd,” said Mrs. Failing, “that the Greeks should be enthusiastic about laurels—that Apollo should pursue any one who could possibly turn into such a frightful plant? What do you make of Rickie?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Shall I lend you his story to read?”
He made no reply.