“Sheila, I want to speak to you.”
It was her husband. She went to the door, opened it, and stood there penitent and with downcast face.
“Come, you must not be silly,” he said, with some kindness in his voice. “You have had no dinner. You must be hungry.”
“I do not care for any; there is no use troubling the servants when I would rather lie down,” she said.
“The servants! You surely don’t take so seriously what I said about them, Sheila? Of course you don’t need to care what the servants think. And in any case they have to bring up dinner for me, so you may as well come and try.”
“Have you not had dinner?” she said timidly.
“Do you think I could sit down and eat with the notion that you might have tumbled into the Thames or been kidnapped, or something?”
“I am very sorry,” she said, in a low voice, and in the gloom he felt his hand taken and carried to her lips. Then they went down stairs in the dining-room, which was now lit up by a blaze of gas and candles.
During dinner, of course, no very confidential talking was possible, and, indeed, Sheila had plenty to tell of her adventures at Richmond. Lavender was now in a more amiable mood, and was disposed to look on the killing of the roebuck as rather a good joke. He complimented Sheila on her good sense in having gone in at the Star and Garter for lunch; and altogether better relations were established between them.
But when dinner was finally over, and the servants dismissed, Lavender placed Sheila’s easy-chair for her as usual, drew his own near hers, and lit a cigarette.