The next day was
Sunday. I got my usual love-letter from Peter--who, whether I saw
him or not, wrote daily--telling me that his temperature had gone
up again and that he would give me his two best horses on Monday,
as he was not allowed to leave his room. After we had finished
lunch, Peter turned up, looking ill and furious. Mrs. Bunbury
greeted him sweetly and said:
"You ought to be in bed, you know; but, since you ARE here, I'll
leave Margot to look after you while Jacky and I go round the
stables."
When we were left to ourselves, Peter, looking at me, said:
"Well! I've got your letter! What is all this about? Don't you
know there are two horses coming over from Ireland this week which
I want you particularly to ride for me?"
I saw that he was thoroughly upset and told him that I was going
home, as I had been already too long away.
"Have your people written to you?" he said.
MARGOT: "They always write. ..."
PETER: (seeing the evasion): "What's wrong?"
MARGOT: "What do you mean?"
PETER: "You know quite well that no one has asked you to go home.
Something has happened; some one has said something to you; you've
been put out. After all it was only yesterday that we were
discussing every meet; and you promised to give me a lurcher. What
has happened since to change you?"
MARGOT: "Oh, what does it matter? I can always come down here
again later on."
PETER: "How wanting in candour you are! You are not a bit like
what I thought you were!"
MARGOT (sweetly): "No .
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