There is nothing so tiring as racing and we all sat in perfect
silence going home in the special that evening.
Neither at dinner nor after had I any opportunity of speaking to
Peter, but I observed a singularly impassive expression on his
face. The next day--being Sunday--I asked him to go round the
stables with me after church; he refused, so I went alone. After
dinner I tried again to talk to him, but he would not answer; he
did not look angry, but he appeared to be profoundly sad, which
depressed me. He told Hoppy Manners he was not going to hunt that
week as he feared he would have to be in London. My heart sank. We
all went to our rooms early and Peter remained downstairs reading.
As he never read in winter I knew there was something seriously
wrong, so I went down in my tea-gown to see him. It was nearly
midnight. The room was empty and we were alone. He never looked
up.
MARGOT: "Peter, you've not spoken to me once since the races. What
can have happened?"
PETER: "I would rather you left me, PLEASE. ... Pray go back to
your room."
MARGOT (sitting on the sofa beside him): "Won't you speak to me
and tell me all about it?"
Peter put down his book, and looking at me steadily, said very
slowly:
"I'd rather not speak to a liar!"
I stood up as if I had been shot and said:
"How dare you say such a thing!"
PETER: "You lied to me."
MARGOT: "When?"
PETER: "You know perfectly well! And you are in love! You know you
are.
Pages:
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312