"What's the matter with you?" she demanded. "Why on earth do you sit there and grunt at me like that? Why won't you talk? You're an absolute wet blanket—on my last morning. I wish The Dears would come down."
"I think I hear them moving," he said, and stared at the ceiling.
"I hope you do." Alwynne flounced from the table and picked up a paper.
He stood looking at her—between vexation and amusement, and another sensation less easily defined.
"Well, I must be off," he said at last.
He got no answer.
"Good-bye, Alwynne. Pleasant journey."
Alwynne turned in a flash.
"Good-bye? Aren't you coming to see me off?" she demanded blankly.
He hesitated, looking back at her from the open window, one foot already on the terrace.