“I’m so glad you’ve had a pleasant day. Good-night, Mary.”
So they parted—with a good-night as calm, as decorous, as frankly fraternal as one could wish (or wish otherwise). Yet its very virtues undid it in the prematurely suspicious eyes of Arthur Laing. For no sooner was he left alone than he threw down his paper and began to chuckle.
“All for my benefit, that, eh? ‘Goodnight, Mary!’ ‘Good-night, John!’ Lord! Lord!” and he rose, lit a cigarette, and ordered a brandy-and-soda. And ever and again he smiled. He felt very acute indeed.
So vain is it for either wisdom or simplicity, candor or diplomacy—nay, for facts themselves—to struggle against a Man with a Theory. Mr. Laing went to bed no more doubting that Mary and John were man and wife than he doubted that he had ‘spotted’ the winner of the Derby. Certitude could no farther go.
CHAPTER VII. — THE SIGHTS OF AVIGNON
“It’s a curious thing,” observed Roger Deane, “but this fellow Baedeker always travels the opposite way to what I do. When I’m coming back, he’s always going out, and vice versa. It makes him precious difficult to understand, I can tell you, Miss Dora. However I think I’ve got him now. Listen to this! ‘Marseilles to Arles (Amphitheatre starred) one day. Arles to Avignon (Palace of the Popes starred) two days—slow going that—Avignon to——‘”
“Do you want to squat in this wretched country, Sir Roger?” demanded Dora angrily.
A faint smile played round Sir Roger’s lips.