“Very likely.”
“That outhouse,” he continued, “must be quite a large place. Have you any idea what it is he works upon there?”
“None,” she answered.
He looked around him once more.
“Mr. Fentolin has been preparing for my coming,” he observed. “I see that he has moved a few of his personal things.”
She made no reply, only she shivered a little as she stepped back into the sunshine.
“I don’t believe you like my little domicile,” he remarked, as they started off homeward.
“I don’t,” she admitted curtly.
“In the train,” he reminded her, “you seemed rather to discourage my coming here. Yet last night, after dinner—”
“I was wrong,” she interrupted. “I should have said nothing, and yet I couldn’t help it. I don’t suppose it will make any difference.”