“Where did you walk?”
“Just along the front with Alice, nearly to Hove. The wind’s jolly cold.”
“Jolly? It’s horrid; Brighton’s horrid: too cold to go out, and the hotel is so stuffy.”
“Is it? I hadn’t noticed it. But I do wish you would go out more. You know what the doctor said—lots of fresh air.”
“But he didn’t tell me to go out when it was so cold it gave me neuralgia all over my head.”
“Let me ring and we’ll have tea up here. It’ll cheer you up.”
“I do wish you wouldn’t always treat me like a child!” she said pettishly; “so long as you give me pretty things or feed me with sweets you think I’m happy.”
“Aren’t you happy, dear?”
“No, I’m not!” she answered sharply.
“Not?” he repeated, as he stood up and started to walk about the room. “I thought you were, dear. What can I do? I’ve always tried my best to give you what you wanted.”