They lunched in the old oak-beamed dining-room—a meal presided over by Max, who played the host with a half-mocking air, while Chris, still eager upon the renovations, poured out plans, practicable and otherwise, for her fiancé's consideration.
"What a pity we have to get back!" she said regretfully when the time for departure drew near. "I want to begin right away, Trevor. Why can't we spend the night here? Wire to Aunt Philippa, Max. Say we are busy."
Max grinned. "What says Trevor?"
"Quite impossible," said Mordaunt, with a smile at her ardent face.
"There isn't a bed for you to sleep on."
"I could sleep on the sofa with Cinders," she said. "We can sleep anywhere."
"They've slept on a heap of stones before now," remarked Max.
"I'm sure we haven't!" She whisked round upon him with a suddenness that was almost a challenge. "We haven't, Max!" she repeated.
He stuck a cigarette into his mouth. "All right, my dear girl. My mistake, no doubt. I thought you had."
"Don't be absurd!" ordered Chris, colouring vividly "We never did anything so—so disreputable." She twined her arm impulsively in Mordaunt's. "Don't believe him, Trevor!"
"I don't," he said, with his quiet eyes upon her upturned face.