Ralph shook his head. “Couldn’t think of it, my dear. The clouds are no place for my wife. Besides, I doubt if your wings would ever grow after the clipping to which we’ve submitted them. Now, put something on, and I’ll carry you down on the beach.”
“Tell me about the New Camp, and what you did to-day!” Peachy asked, after an interval in which she visibly struggled for control.
“Oh, Lord, ask anything but that,” Addington exclaimed with a sudden gust of his old irritability. “I work hard enough all day. When I get home, I want to talk about something else. It rests me not to think of it.”
“But, Ralph,” Peachy entreated, “I could help you. I know I could. I have so many ideas about things. You know Pete says I’m a real artist. It would interest me so much if you would only talk over the building plans with me.”
“I don’t know that I am particularly interested in Pete’s opinion of your abilities,” Addington rejoined coldly. “My dear little girl,” he went on, palpably striving for patience and gentleness, “there’s nothing you could do to help me. Women are too impractical. This is a man’s work, besides. By the way, after we’ve had our little outing, I’ll leave you with Lulu. Honey and Pete and I are going to meet at the Clubhouse to work over some plans.”
“All right,” Peachy said. She added, “I guess I won’t go out, after all. I feel tired. I think I’ll lie down for a while.”
“Anything I can do for you, dear?” Addington asked tenderly as he left.
“Nothing, thank you.” Peachy’s voice was stony. Then suddenly she pulled herself upright on the couch. “Oh—Ralph—one minute. I want to talk to you about Angela. Her wings are growing so fast.”