“Sillerton Jackson—” she echoed, without in the least knowing what she said.
“Yes; he has the gout again—luckily for me!—and his sister’s brougham came to the Parretts’ to fetch him.”
She collected herself. “You’re coughing more than you did yesterday,” she accused him.
“Oh, well—the air’s sharpish. But I shall be all right presently.... Oh, those roses!” He paused in admiration before his writing-table.
Her face glowed with a reflected pleasure, though all the while the names he had pronounced—“The Parretts, the Wessons, Sillerton Jackson”—were clanging through her brain like a death-knell.
“They are lovely, aren’t they?” she beamed.
“Much too lovely for me. You must take them down to the drawing-room.”
“No; we’re going to have tea up here.”
“That’s jolly—it means there’ll be no visitors, I hope?”
She nodded, smiling.