“‘Stuff!’ Mr. Bransby; it is not ‘stuff’!”
“But your own words prove that it is,” Bransby continued the duel.
“My own words?”
“You’ve just admitted your—‘communication’ I think you called it—was a silly mistake.”
For one time in her life she was completely non-plused. There had not been many such times.
“Well—well——” she began, but she could find no useful words. Her annoyance was so keen that Helen feared she was going to cry. She could cry, too—Helen had seen her do it. Helen caught up a box of cigarettes and carried them to Angela, hoping to divert her.
“Do have a cigarette,” she urged.
Mrs. Hilary shook her head violently, but sadly. Helen threw Hugh a look of despair.
That warrior was no diplomatist, but a beautifully obedient lover. He hurried to Mrs. Hilary and bent over her almost tenderly, and said, “Ripping weather—what?”
Mrs. Hilary gave him a baleful look—almost a glare—and turned her shoulder on him. Hugh shrugged his shoulders helplessly, throwing Helen an apologetic look.