"I am so sorry to be late, Lady Wakely," I said, addressing her and the other women, "but my husband is not well, and, I fear, will not be able to come in to dinner. He must have caught a chill out shooting."
"Have you sent for the doctor? Because, if not, I know all about chills with Wullie, who never changes his socks," interrupted Mrs. Dodd. "Let me go to him, Mrs. Gussie."
"No, thank you. Do not trouble," I said. "His servant and I have done all that is necessary, and he wishes to sleep. Let us go in to dinner."
I told them each whom they were to take in, and put my own hand on Antony's arm. It seemed as if he held it closely to his side, but he said nothing, and we walked into the dining-room.
I do not know at all what we talked about. Certainly for three courses everything was a blank to me. But I heard myself laughing, and Mr. Dodd, who sat on my other hand, seemed mightily amused at my conversation.
"Why, the open air and a little walking has done you all the good in the world, Mrs. Gussie!" I was conscious, at last, that he was saying. "Your cheeks are quite rosy and your eyes as bright as stars."
"Yes, it was a delightful day," I said.
"Talk about chills, Mr. McCormack"—Mrs. Dodd's voice carried across the table-"I know Gussie Gurrage, and I don't believe he ever had a chill in his life!"
Antony now began to talk to me quietly. He said very little. His voice was particularly cool and collected. He never once looked at me. I was grateful for that. I felt as if I could not bear to see sympathy in his eyes. He also talked to Lady Wakely, on his other hand, and chaffed beyond to Miss Springle.
And so the dinner passed, and the ladies rose to leave the dining-room, Mr. McCormack holding the door for us.