She turned to him from the door. She was really a very handsome woman. Her lips were most expressive.
"My friend," she said, "if you knew, if you understood, the priceless humor of it would be gone."
She closed the door and left John alone. He went back to the billiard-table, but somehow or other his skill seemed to have vanished. He had the picture of her face in his mind, the subtle meaning of her lips, the mockery of her eyes.
They drove up to London almost in silence. It was nearly seven o'clock when John swung the little car in Pont Street. It was still raining softly.
"Thank you very much," he said, "for my week-end. I enjoyed the river immensely yesterday afternoon."
"And thank you very much for everything, Mr. John Strangewey," she returned. "You have given me what we are all sighing for, a new sensation—not exactly what I expected, perhaps, but something new."
"I know you think I am a country yokel and a fool," John said; "but I wish you'd tell me why you laughed at me in that mysterious fashion."
She shook her head.
"It would spoil it," she replied. "Besides, it isn't for me to tell you. I am the last person who should."
They drew up outside her little house, from which came no sign of light.