“It's stupid to talk like that: you're not a cripple. You deserved to be frightened, anyway, for behaving so atrociously. You didn't take anyone in, you know. It was as plain as a pikestaff you didn't want to sit out with Mavis Warrenby. She is dull, of course. I can't think why very good people so often are. Why on earth didn't you pretend you had to go home early, and just leave?”
“That would have looked as if I were not enjoying the party.”
“Well, it would have been better than hatching up that quite incredible story about having to fetch a lot of unimportant papers for Bernard!” she said tartly.
“You wrong me. May I hand over to you the proofs of my integrity?” he said, drawing a long, fat envelope from the inner pocket of his coat, and giving it to her, with his impish smile. “Is the Squire still playing tennis?”
“Yes. It's no use my waiting for him. He's going home the other way, so that he can look at what's been done in the new plantation. So foolish of him! He'll only wear himself out to no purpose. How insufferably hot it is!”
“Is it? It doesn't seem so to me. Are you quite well, Mrs. Ainstable? Well enough to be driving alone?”
“Thank you, perfectly well! Is this your way of asking for a lift?”
“No, I should be afraid,” he retorted.
“Oh, don't be so silly!” she said, rather roughly putting the car into gear.
He watched her sweep through the gates on to the lane, and walked on to rejoin the rest of the party.