Lady Haigh meant to be irritating, and she succeeded, for her husband had told her over and over again that such a view was purely and hopelessly feminine. Sir Dugald threw down the paper-knife with a clatter, and drew back his chair as if to leave the room.
“If I can’t get him to do it,” she pursued meditatively, “I’ll—let me see——”
“Appeal to Cæsar—otherwise the General, I suppose? That seems to be your favourite plan.”
“Oh dear, no; certainly not. I shall make Penelope ask Major Keeling herself.”
“Now, Elma!” Sir Dugald detected something dangerous in the tone of his wife’s remark. “That’s no good. Just let the Chief alone. He isn’t the man to give in to anything of the kind.”
Lady Haigh seemed impressed, though perhaps she was only thinking deeply, and her husband, instead of resting on his prophetic laurels, unwisely descended to argument.
“He’s not a marrying man; and to go throwing your friend at his head is merely lowering her in his eyes. He would see it in a moment.”
“My dear Dugald!”—Lady Haigh awoke from a brown study—“what extraordinary things you are saying! I haven’t the slightest intention of throwing Penelope at any one’s head. It’s really vulgar to suspect every woman that comes near him of designs on Major Keeling.”
“Then why do you want to take Miss Ross up with us?”
“Because I am her only friend in India, of course. I wish you wouldn’t put such thoughts into my head, Dugald,” plaintively. “Now if anything should come to pass, I shall always feel that I have helped in bringing it on, and I do hate match-making.”