Mr. Brummell looked him over with that lift of the eyebrow which could always depress pretension. “Yes, sir, I have visited the Lakes,” he said.
“Ah then, in that case—And which of them do you most admire, sir?”
Mr. Brummell drew in his breath. “I will tell you, sir, if you will accord me a few moments.” Then, turning to address a footman who had come in to make up the fire, he quietly desired the man to send his valet to him. Mr. Fox-Matthews stared, but the Beau remained quite imperturbable, and maintained a thoughtful silence until the entrance of a neat man in a black coat, who came anxiously up to him, and bowed.
“Robinson,” said Mr. Brummell, “which of the Lakes do I admire?”
“Windermere, sir,” replied the valet respectfully.
“Ah, Windermere, is it? Thank you, Robinson. Yes, I like Windermere best,” he said, turning politely back to Mr. Fox-Matthews.
Mrs. Fox-Matthews, swelling with indignation, rose, and declared it to be time they were taking their leave.
Peregrine’s cough, when his sister next saw him, did not appear to have benefited much from a morning spent in the fresh air. It still troubled him, and during the days that followed grew perceptibly worse. His throat was slightly inflamed, and although he would not hear of consulting a doctor, or admit that he felt in the least sickly, it was evident that he was far from being in perfect health. There was a languor, a heavy look about the eyes which worried his sister, but he ascribed it all to having caught a chill, and believed that the air at Worth might not quite suit him.
“The air at Worth,” Judith repeated. “The air—” She broke off. “What am I thinking? I deserve to be beaten for indulging such a wild fancy! Impossible! Oh, impossible!”
“Well, what are you thinking?” inquired Peregrine, with a yawn, “What is impossible? Why do you look so oddly?”