She was inclined to take his words seriously. There had been moments before their engagement when he had certainly looked at her in a very different manner, when she had realized that if she really did say "yes" to him, she might find herself in danger of having to submit to something a little more vigorous than the ordinary love-making she knew anything of. She had even made up her mind, with a faint blush, to submit to it,—had grown to expect it. Somehow, although she would have found the admission distinctly humiliating, she was a trifle disappointed.
"I wonder," she whispered, looking down upon the carpet, "if you need—if you really need encouragement."
She felt a sudden thrill as his arm touched her, a sudden sense of his enveloping presence. Then the door opened, and she withdrew herself quickly. The Countess came into the room, a curious replica of her daughter, except that her hair was gray, and the light in her eyes a little steelier.
"So sorry you are not going with us," she remarked to Deane. "Inquire if the brougham is waiting," she continued, turning to her maid. "No, don't bother, Stirling," she added, as he moved toward the door. "We are really in plenty of time."
Lord Nunneley came in, with the evening paper in his hand.
"Is there any news, George?" his wife asked.
He shook his head. "There never is," he answered. "The evening papers aren't worth looking at now. Shocking murder, by the bye, at one of the big hotels."
Deane turned slowly round. "A murder?" he repeated.
His host nodded as he lit a cigarette. "Fellow just arrived in the country," he remarked,—"supposed to have had a lot of money in his pocket. Found dead in his room at about seven o'clock to-night."
"Do you remember the name of the hotel?" asked Deane.