“I 've told him I shall raise his wages,” she sighed. “He used to be such a splendid gardener! That reminds me, my dear Dick; I want to have a talk with you. Shall we go in to lunch?”
Consulting the memorandum-book in which she had been noting the case of Mrs. Hopkins, she slightly preceded Shelton to the house.
It was somewhat late that afternoon when Shelton had his “wigging”; nor did it seem to him, hypnotised by the momentary absence of Antonia, such a very serious affair.
“Now, Dick,” the Honourable Mrs. Dennant said, in her decisive drawl, “I don't think it 's right to put ideas into Antonia's head.”
“Ideas!” murmured Shelton in confusion.
“We all know,” continued Mrs. Dennant, “that things are not always what they ought to be.”
Shelton looked at her; she was seated at her writing-table, addressing in her large, free writing a dinner invitation to a bishop. There was not the faintest trace of awkwardness about her, yet Shelton could not help a certain sense of shock. If she—she—did not think things were what they ought to be—in a bad way things must be indeed!
“Things!” he muttered.
Mrs. Dennant looked at him firmly but kindly with the eyes that would remind him of a hare's.
“She showed me some of your letters, you know. Well, it 's not a bit of use denyin', my dear Dick, that you've been thinkin' too much lately.”