“Shall I call the nurse?” inquired Lady Wilmot, rising with dignity.
“No, no; sit down, and tell me more about Claudia. It’s awful to think how much time I’m wasting.”
His cousin settled herself once more against the cushion, took up one of the pugs, and smiled in token of forgiveness.
“I’m not so sure,” she said doubtfully.
“Pity?”
“And remorse. You see, Charlie Carter was for ever dinning into her that it was all her fault.”
“It wasn’t, really,” said Fenwick, hastily. “I can’t exactly explain.”
“Oh, I can! I’ve felt all along that she was trying to avoid a crisis. You’re so dreadfully impetuous.”
“I like that! If I had only chosen to be impetuous, as you call it, Peter would have been nowhere.”
“Perhaps, if you’re expecting me to help you, you’ll condescend to talk sense.”