“Roger, I hate you!” Margaret gasped in a stifled voice, hurrying with burning cheeks out of the room.
“Portrait of a lady on her way to immurement,” murmured Roger thoughtfully, gazing after her flying figure.
“Damn you, Roger!” spluttered the indignant Anthony, no less puce. “What the deuce do you want to go and⸺”
“Anthony, I think it’s time we were going,” Roger pointed out gently.
This time Anthony really did go, not only out of the house but right down the drive, over the road and on to the cliffs.
Roger gave him ten minutes to work off steam and simmer down again; then he got on with the business in hand.
“Now, look here, Anthony, drop all that and tell me this—what deductions did you draw at our little tea-party?”
“What deductions?” Anthony said a little reluctantly. “I don’t know that I drew any. Did you?”
“One or two. That the lady we had the pleasure of meeting wouldn’t be at all averse to becoming Mrs. Vane now that the post is vacant, for one thing.”
“How on earth could you tell that, Roger?”