"Certainly not, Lucy," was the unexpected answer, "why, he's Adjutant-General."
"What does that matter? He'll come, and you must have somebody to talk to besides me, we'll ask him for to-morrow night; it's your birthday, you know, though I suppose you've forgotten that. Had you, Hector?"
"I had. I'm a fool about dates, as you know; but, Lucy, please don't ask Quentin."
"No, I won't please, I'm going to; you like him, and that's enough. Oh, look, Hector, the sun, a break in the rains at last. Now I'll write the note, and you shall take it; the ride will do you good, and you can meet me at the Swaines."
"Lucy, I'd much sooner stay here with you."
"No, I've got things to do, I must get on with my sewing, and I can't do that while you're here."
"Why not? I'm interested in that sewing. Oh, I do wish, Lucy, you'd let me know a little more about—about the infant. I really want to, and you never will talk about it."
"Of course not, such things are not for a man to know about. I intend to keep everything of that sort from you, dear. When he or she comes it will be different, but till then you mustn't ask questions."
"But, Lucy, can't you understand——?" began Hector.
"Perfectly, and it's sweet of you to be interested, or rather appear to be, for of course you're not really; no man could be in such details, and a woman would be a fool to expect it. Now go, like a good boy, and order the pony while I write the note."