“Damn!”
“Sssh!”
Thereat he started. Nidia Commerell was standing in the doorway right beside him, drawing on a pair of suede gloves, her blue eyes dancing with mirth. She was clad in a bicycle skirt and light blouse, and wore a plain white sailor hat.
“Sssh! You using naughty swear words? I am surprised at you!”
The smile which rippled brightly from the mobile lips showed, however, that the surprise, if any, was not of a derogatory nature. John Ames laughed ruefully.
“I’m sorry. But really it was under great provocation. I’ve received marching orders.”
“No? Not really? Oh, how disgusting!”
The utterance was quick. His eyes were full upon her face. How would she receive the communication? Was that really a flash of consternation, of regret, that swept over it?
“When must you go?” she continued, still, it seemed to him, speaking rather quickly.
“I ought to start by to-night’s train”—then, breaking off—“Where is Mrs Bateman? Is she ready?”