“Not much, I fancy.”
“Suppose we were to try another change—Germany, or somewhere?” she calmly suggested.
“I would rather be here than anywhere, Rachel.”
“I should like you to get well, you know, Geoffry.”
“I should like it too, my dear.”
“Mamma has written to ask us to go into Somersetshire for Christmas,” continued Lady Rachel, putting her foot, encased in its black satin shoe and white silk stocking, on the fender.
“Ay. My mother was talking about it just now. Well, we shall see between now and Christmas, Rachel. Perhaps they can come to us instead.”
Lady Rachel turned her very light eyes upon her husband: eyes in which there often sat a peevish expression. It was not discernible at the present moment: they were coldly calm.
“Don’t you think you shall be quite well by Christmas?”
“I cannot speak with any certainty, Rachel.”