Marie unclasped her hand.
"Maud, dear, go indoors and go to bed," she said.
"No, no!" whispered the girl. "What am I— Oh—oh!" and a long sobbing sigh rose in her throat.
Marie got up.
"Come, then, we will go together," she said, in a voice which she heard to be perfectly calm and hard.
"What are you going to do?" asked Maud.
"If I knew I would tell you," said Marie.
The lights were still brilliant on the lawn, and as they passed behind the screen of bushes Arthur Naseby's voice was still shrill. Marie found herself noticing and remembering details with the most accurate observation; it was here, at this bend in the path, that there would be a smell of syringa, and a little further on a dim scent of roses. Close to the house a cedar cast a curious pattern of shade; a square of bright light fell on the gravel path from the open drawing-room windows. It was no wonder she remembered, for a very short time had passed since she had been here. But everything not trivial was changed.
In a very few minutes' space they were together in Marie's bedroom. As she went to the window to draw the blinds, she looked out for a moment. The tents were lit; there was Bridge in one, in another the servants had nearly finished laying supper. And looking, she made up her mind as to what she should do in the immediate future. She turned back into the room.
"I shall drive up to London to-night," she said, "if I can get a carriage. Is that possible?"