Oh, it was nothing, Horace maintained; for several days he had hardly coughed at all. But with every word he uttered, Mrs. Damerel became more convinced of something unusual in his state of mind; he could not keep still, and, in trying to put himself at ease, assumed strange postures.
‘When did you hear from Winifred?’ she asked.
‘Yesterday—no, the day before.’
He shrank from her scrutiny, and an expression of annoyance began to disturb his features. Mrs. Damerel knew well enough the significance of that particular look; it meant the irritation of his self-will, the summoning of forces to resist something he disliked.
‘There has been no difference between you, I hope?’
‘No—oh no,’ Horace replied, wriggling under her look.
At that moment a servant opened the door.
‘Two ladies have called in a carriage, sir, and would like to see you.’
‘I’ll go down. Excuse me for a moment, aunt.’
‘Who are they, Horace?’ asked Mrs. Damerel, rising with an ill-concealed look of dismay.