'Yes,' he says; 'I do. No; I do not—at least, I have something to say to her, but I think'—insinuatingly—'that I had rather say it to you. You know, Peggy, how fond I am of saying things to you! There is no one to whom I can say things as comfortably as I can to you.'
At this preface her heart sinks a little.
'What is it?' she asks curtly.
'Oh, only my luck!' throwing himself into a chair. 'By Jove'—looking round the room—'how cool you feel! and how good you smell!'
'I do not suppose that you came here to say that,' rejoins she, still standing over him in expectant anxiety.
His answer is to try and get possession of her hand.
'Peggy,' he says plaintively, 'that is not a nice way to speak to me; that is not the way I like to be spoken to. The reason why I came here—it is very inhospitable of you to insist upon my giving a reason—was to say'—sighing profoundly—'that I fear dear little Prue and I shall have to give up our ride this afternoon.'
Her foreboding was a true one then!
'Why?'
'Oh, because—because—just my luck!'