“Absolutely overboard. Then he looked at me a moment and said: ‘That’s all I had to say. Thanks for listening to me, Miss Cochrane. Good-night.’ ”
“And what did you say?”
She rested her chin in her hand, looking sideways at me.
“I said: ‘Good-night, Mr Walsh. We meet at breakfast to-morrow as usual?’ ”
“The deuce you did!”
“ ‘At our table?’ he asked. And I said ‘Yes.’ He gave a little laugh, and so did I, and I held out my hand. He shook hands and left me, and I went down and read with mamma.”
“Nothing else said?”
“He said nothing else. I believe I whispered: ‘It’ll be rather fun—because you will get off!’ But I know I didn’t say anything more than that.”
There was a pause. I lit another cigarette, snatching a mean advantage by stealing a look at my friend in the light of the match. She was not looking at me, but straight ahead of her: there was a pensive smile on her lips.
“And what happened afterwards?” I asked.