Il y a quelque chose qui couve, says a French idiom.
Now all in a moment I realised that I was in a measure spying—a trick grown obnoxious to me. I turned from the window, and went resolutely out into the open. They saw me at once, and Johnny hurried up with his greeting, and a rather shameful face, I thought.
“I was coming to see you, and met Miss Christmas in the grounds,” he said. “We supposed you were still away, old fellow, as there was no sign of your moving in there.”
“Why should there be at this hour?”
“This hour? Don’t you know it’s near midday?”
“No, by the Lord—is it! What a sleep I’ve had.”
I turned to Miss Christmas.
“Did you want me for anything?” I asked.
“No,” she said, in one hard little icicle of a word. She turned to Johnny, and the sunlight broke on her face.
“I must go back now,” she said, “but I daresay we shall meet again.”