“Don’t say nothing,” he said; “think of the potato-cakes!”
“That may be your point of view,” I said regretfully; “but when I was running across that field I was thinking of Corelli.”
“I had hoped,” remarked Nugent, looking sideways at me, as he pulled up at the hall door, “that you might have had some incidental thoughts about the way in which you had treated me.”
“I cannot argue any more until I have had my tea,” I said, getting out of the trap, and trying to stamp some of the mud off my boots on the steps.
“Perhaps I had better go home,” he suggested. “As Corelli is out of the question, I suppose I shall not be wanted.”
“Just as you like.”
“But I want the potato-cake you promised me.”
“Then, I think you had better come in and get it,” I said, going into the house. “I don’t approve of outdoor relief.”
