“Oh, you’ll help; you’re dying to be at it.”
She vouchsafed no reply.
“I’ll tell you one thing you can do,” he said eagerly. “If you really believe she’s feeling a bit sentimental over my spill—”
Lady Wilmot was playing with her pug’s ears. She interrupted sweetly—
“I think she feels the injury to your bicycle very much.”
“That’s all the same thing. Then, whatever happens, don’t let her go till I’m about again, or stretched on a sofa, or something effective. Let her fuss about with the trees as much as she likes.”
“She can fuss, of course. But she has said a few words which make me think she wants to be off, and I’m not sure whether—”
“Whether?”
“If she sticks on here, whether she mayn’t find her remorse just a little boring?”
“No, no, she mustn’t; it will grow for being fed upon. Look here, Flo, don’t make me out too well.”