"What a cross chap he is," muttered the Master to himself, "he always wants a fellow to be dodging about those old ruins. It isn't good enough when there's a pretty girl about--not much. Life's too short to waste one's chances."
After which slightly egotistical soliloquy, Otterburn pitched his cigarette into a flower-bed and strolled off to the music-room, where he found Miss Sheldon strumming waltzes on a fearfully bad piano.
"Oh, here you are," she cried, rising with alacrity, "I'm so glad. I want to go out for a stroll, and Mrs. Trubbles doesn't. That nuisance of a husband of hers is talking her to sleep with politics."
"He is rather a trial," murmured Otterburn, as they went outside.
"Trial!" echoed Miss Sheldon, with supreme contempt, unfurling her sunshade, "I should just think so. One might as well have married a Blue-Book. Why did she marry him?"
"For the sake of contrast, probably."
"It's not impossible. Where is the amiable Mr. Gartney?"
"Gone geologizing, or ruin-hunting. Something of that sort!"
"Alone?"
"Entirely."