“It’s only half-past eight,” she hazarded.
He read on.
She glanced across at Mrs. Cloud, half asleep at the other end of the huge deserted hotel sitting-room. They were the only people indoors on that warm spring night of Italy.
Suddenly she attacked him—
“Justin, you’ll hurt your eyes.” Then, with a curtness that was pure embarrassment, “Justin, what’s the matter?”
“The matter?” He raised his eyebrows.
“Yes. I want to know.” She hesitated. “Is anything wrong? Have I done anything you don’t like? What makes you——?”
“What?”
“Oh, I don’t know—so funny to me. So—grumpy.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know——” he began stiffly.