"Where it stays, you mean," I growled, as the rising wind flung a handful of raindrops against the windows. For a moment I sat silent, looking out into the night, thinking. Except for a luncheon, to-morrow was free. And I could cut that. A network of shining rails showed that the terminus was at hand. I turned to my lady.
"Then we shall meet again to-morrow," I said gravely. "I have to go down to Dover, too."
"What for?" This suspiciously.
I rose and took up my hat. "Another dog," I said shortly.
She broke into silvery merriment. At length:
"Nonsense," she said, rising.
"Not at all," said I. "The Dover dogs are famous."
"Sea-dogs, perhaps," she murmured, setting one knee on the cushions to look into the glass. "Well, you've been awfully kind, and I'm very grateful. And now—" she swung round—"good-bye." She held out a slim hand.
The train drew up to the platform.
"Good-bye?" said I, taking the cool fingers. She nodded.