"You like this place, don't you?" he asked. "You don't think it is the place?"
"Pineland and Carbies? I am not sure. If I had not taken it for three months I believe I'd go back today or tomorrow. I ran away from you . . . and social guns. I'm armed now." He thanked her for that mutely. "Do you really love this ill-fixed house?"
"How should I not? But what does that matter? Leave it empty if it doesn't suit you. There is Queen Anne's Gate."
"I know, but we should never be alone."
"Nothing matters but that you should be well, happy. I'd take my vacation now, stay down, only I want at least six weeks in June. I could not do with less than six weeks." And this time the interlude was longer, more silent. Margaret recovered herself first.
"About Peter Kennedy. He really suits me better than any of the other doctors here. Lansdowne is a soft-soapy grinning pessimist, with an all-conquering air. He tells you how ill you are as if it doesn't matter since he has warned you, and will come constantly to remind you. There is a Dr. Lushington who, I believe, knows more than all of them put together, but he is a delicate man himself, overburdened with children, and cramped with small means. He gives me fresh heartache, I am so sorry for him all the time he is with me. Lans-
