'I can do better than that,' replies Freddy, in self-defence. 'I am not in voice to-night.'
'But you had not a notion that we were here, had you?' repeats Lady Betty pertinaciously.
'As we had heard you talking at the top of your voices for half a mile before we came up to you, we had some slight inkling of it.'
Peggy wonders whether the cold dryness of his tone is as patent to the person to whom it is addressed as it is to herself. She supposes that it is, since she instantly takes possession of him; and, under the pretext of showing him a plant which can scarcely be distinguishable from its neighbours under the colourless moonlight, walks him off into a dusky alley.
Margaret remains alone with Freddy.
'"Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prithee, why so mute?"'
says he familiarly, approaching her.
She looks him fully and gravely in the face. Most people find it difficult to look at Freddy Ducane without smiling. Peggy feels no such inclination. Between her and this image of youth and sunshine there rises another image—a poor little image, to whom this gay weather-cock gives its weather—a little image that expands or shrinks as this all-kissing zephyr blows warm or cold upon it.
'Because I have nothing to say, I suppose,' replies she shortly.
'Come with me to the walled garden'—in a wheedling voice—'and show me the stars.'