“If you’re afraid,” said Priscilla, “that it will dirty your beautiful white trousers, I’ll give it a rub-over with my pocket-handcher. But I don’t think that’ll be much use really. You’ll be filthy from head to foot in any case before we get home.”
Frank, limping with as much dignity as possible, sat down in the chair. He got out his cigarette case and asked Priscilla not to start until he had lit his cigarette.
“You don’t object to the smell, I hope,” he said politely.
“Not a bit. I’d smoke myself only I don’t like it. I tried once—Sylvia Courtney was shocked. That’s rather the sort she is—but it seemed to me to have a nasty taste. You’re sure you like it, Cousin Frank? Don’t do it simply because you think you ought.”
Priscilla pushed the bath-chair from behind. Frank guided the shaky front wheel by means of a long handle. They went down the avenue at an extremely rapid pace, Priscilla moving in a kind of jaunty canter. When they reached the gate Frank’s cigarette had gone out. There was a pause while he lit it again. Then he asked Priscilla to go a little less quickly. He wished his approach to the public street of the village to be as little grotesque as possible.
“By the way,” said Priscilla, “have you any money?”
“Certainly. How much do you want?”
“That depends. I have eightpence, which ought to be enough unless you want something very expensive to drink.”
“Why should we take anything to drink? We said at breakfast that we’d be back for luncheon.”
“We won’t,” said Priscilla, “nor we won’t for tea. Lucky if we are for dinner.”