John Musgrave ascended the steps, and, since the invitation had not seemed to include himself, Mr Chadwick turned on his heel and continued the stroll which Mr Musgrave’s arrival had interrupted. Peggy and John Musgrave paced the terrace slowly side by side; and Mrs Chadwick, reading a novel in solitary enjoyment in the drawing-room, listened to the low hum of their voices as they passed and re-passed the windows, and wondered between the diversion of her story who Peggy was talking with.
“You came to fetch Diogenes?” Peggy said.
“Not altogether,” Mr Musgrave replied. “I wanted... to see you... You haven’t been down for some days.”
“No,” Peggy admitted, and blushed in the darkness.
“Why?” he asked.
The blush deepened. Had it been light enough to see her face Mr Musgrave must have observed how shy she looked at his question. Since it was impossible to explain that those visits, once so light-heartedly made to Diogenes in Mr Musgrave’s stable-yard, had become an embarrassment for reasons too subtle to analyse, she remained silent, in her self-conscious agitation playing with a rose in her belt with nervous, inconsequent fingers.
“I believe,” Mr Musgrave continued, “that Diogenes has felt neglected.”
“He is forgiving,” she answered. “He came to find me.”
John Musgrave looked at her steadily.
“Do you think it is altogether kind—to Diogenes,” he asked, “to stay away so long? Don’t you think that perhaps he misses you—badly?”