“Pardon me, you did—at Qadirabad, five months ago.”
“But if I did, I never meant it—y’ought to know that! You must know—you couldn’t have believed it! Swear to me you did not, or I’ll crawl out of bed and hold to your feet so you can’t get away!”
“Pray don’t. It ain’t necessary. I’ll swear anything you choose. What will old Mother Gibbons say to me for letting you agitate yourself like this?”
“Mrs Gibbons is a dear sweet soul, and the heart of Dr Gibbons doth safely trust in her, because she never runs up bills. Indeed, then, she scolds him when he spends too much on cheroots. Would you have me turn like her?”
“Certainly not—in that respect, at any rate.”
“Then I’ll tell you this—I’d rather be myself, and be scolded by you, in your most shockingly cold style, than be like Mrs Gibbons—there! Now, will you let me come back with you to Qadirabad?”
“Good heavens!” he said helplessly. “Were the hysterics nothing but a sham, then?” But he saw the perplexity in her eyes changing again into poignant reproach, and hastened to make amends.
“No, I’m a fool, forgive me. But you will allow it’s a bit difficult for a man to follow you into a fresh mood every second minute—eh?”
“But why would I be in the same mood all the time?” in genuine perplexity. He laughed shortly.
“Don’t know, I’m sure, my dear. Blame me as much as you like, but judge me leniently when you find me slow. I was born like it, and have very likely got worse.”