The veil hid her face, but she pressed her clasped hands against her lips as if to keep back all words.
"Do you mean that, Edith?" he insisted.
Her breath came in little sobs. She spoke as if the words forced themselves out in spite of her efforts to repress them: "I'm—I'm staying at the Ritz. I shall be there for—for some days—till—till—he sends for me."
"Good. I'm at the Piccadilly. I shall come to-morrow at eleven."
Before she could withdraw her implied permission he was in the corridor on the way to his own compartment; but at Euston he was beside her door, ready to help her down. Amid the noise and bustle of finding her luggage and having it put on a taxi-cab, there was no opportunity for her to speak. He took care, besides, that there should be none. She was actually seated in the vehicle before she was able to say to him, as he stood at the open window to ask if she had everything she required:
"Oh, Chip, about to-morrow—"
"At eleven," he said, hastily. "I make it eleven because if it's fine we might run down and have the day at Maidenhead."
She caught at a straw. If she couldn't shelve him, a day in the country, in the open air, would be less dangerous than one in London. And perhaps in the end she might shelve him. At any rate, she could temporize. "I've never been at Maidenhead."
"And lunch at Skindle's isn't at all bad."
"I've never been at Skindle's."