“Thank you, my dear,” she said. “I am better. So silly of me.”
“You want to make me drunk, Lyndhurst,” she said.
Then she smiled: it would be a pity to lose the opportunity for a humorous allusion to what at the time had been so far from humour.
“Really drunk, this time,” she said. “And then you tell Cousin James he was right.”
She let herself rest longer than was physically necessary in the encircling crook of his arm, and let herself keep her eyes closed, though, if she had been alone, she would most decidedly have opened them. But those first few minutes had somehow to be traversed, and she felt that silence bridged them over better than speech. It was appropriate, too, that his arm should be round her.
“There, I am better,” she said at length. “Let me get up, Lyndhurst. Thank you for looking after me.”
She got on to her feet, but then sat down again in his easy-chair.
“Very nearly. I shall be quite ready to come downstairs and give you your tea by the time you have unpacked your little portmanteau.”
She did not even look at him, but sat turned away from him and the little portmanteau. But she heard the rustle of paper, the opening and shutting of drawers, the sound of metallic articles of toilet being deposited on dressing-table and washing-stand. After that came the click of a hasp. Then she got up.
She had been determined that he should mention her name first. But when once he had mentioned it she was more than ready to discuss the questions that naturally arose.
“You mean she may come back here to see what has happened to you?” she asked. “That is well thought of, dear. Let us see. But we will go downstairs.”
She thought intently as they descended the staircase, and busied herself with tea-making before she got to her conclusion.
“She will ask for you,” she said, “if she comes, and it would not be very wise for you to see her. On the other hand, she must be told what has happened. I will see her, then. It would be best that way.”
“No, I can’t have that,” he said. “I can’t have that!”
“My dear, you have got to have it. You are in a dreadful mess. I, as your wife, am the only person who can get you out of it. I will do my best, anyhow.”
“I am going to tell Parker to tell Millie that you are at home if she asks for you, and to show her in here,” she said. “There is no other way that I can see. I do not intend to have nothing more to do with her. At least I want to avoid that, if possible, for that is a weak way out of difficulties. I shall certainly have to see her some time, and there is no use in putting it off. I am afraid, Lyndhurst, that you had better finish your tea at once, or take it upstairs. Take another cup upstairs; you have had but one, and drink it in your dressing-room, in the comfortable chair.”