Kate was forced gently to remind him that he had enclosed the MS himself in an envelope and addressed it to a typist with instructions to forward to the Review.
Hugh sat down chapfallen. “What a fool I am!” he groaned. “The tale was unspeakable. It is enough to ruin any reputation. And Wilkie’s not the man to retract either; he’ll tell me the mistake’s my own and I’ll have to grin and bear the ignominy.”
“And that poor girl,” said Kate—“her story lost to her! No wonder I couldn’t find her MS. I meant to have made you hunt for it to-day, but this picnic put it out of my head.”
And now Hugh gave a sudden roar of laughter.
“By George, K,” he said, “don’t you see the shrieking humour of the situation? The [p257] woman thinks I’ve boned her precious story. That’s why she has been treating me with such cold dignity. Oh, hold me up, hold me up, I feel ill!”
But soon his hilarity sobered. The situation also had a pathetic side. He remembered the quiet shining of the authoress’s eyes when she gave him the unfortunate roll of MS. What must she be thinking of him?
“K,” he said, “I’m going down at once to explain to Miss Bibby.”
“But what will Dora and Beatrice say?” said Kate doubtfully.
“Oh, hang Dora and Beatrice,” said their gallant host, “you’ll have to make an excuse for me. Besides, Agnes Bibby is as much my guest as they are. I’ll eat my chicken down there and my strawberries up here. You’ve sent everything down for them, haven’t you.”
“Everything,” said K.