“I was only having a joke with you. I opened it.”
He tore it out of her hands. Macalister had bought him two hundred and fifty shares and sold them at the half-crown profit he had suggested. The commission note was to follow next day. For one moment Philip was furious with Mildred for her cruel jest, but then he could only think of his joy.
“It makes such a difference to me,” he cried. “I’ll stand you a new dress if you like.”
“I want it badly enough,” she answered.
“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to be operated upon at the end of July.”
“Why, have you got something the matter with you?” she interrupted.
It struck her that an illness she did not know might explain what had so much puzzled her. He flushed, for he hated to refer to his deformity.
“No, but they think they can do something to my foot. I couldn’t spare the time before, but now it doesn’t matter so much. I shall start my dressing in October instead of next month. I shall only be in hospital a few weeks and then we can go away to the seaside for the rest of the summer. It’ll do us all good, you and the baby and me.”
“Oh, let’s go to Brighton, Philip, I like Brighton, you get such a nice class of people there.” Philip had vaguely thought of some little fishing village in Cornwall, but as she spoke it occurred to him that Mildred would be bored to death there.
“I don’t mind where we go as long as I get the sea.”