"As long as Peter was around, that was one thing; now that he's gone—"
"It throws me back on your hands," she interrupted, in an attempt to assert herself. "Please to sit down. You're making your old mistake of trying to be serious. There's not the slightest reason in the world why you should bother about me like this."
She ventured to look at him again. His brows were drawn together in a puzzled frown. Dear Monte—it was cruel of her to confuse him like this, when he was trying to see straight. He looked so very woe-begone when he looked troubled at all.
"It—it is n't any bother," he stammered.
"I should think it was a good deal," she answered, feeling for a moment that she had the upper hand. "Where did you come from to here?"
"Paris."
"You did n't go on to England at all?"
"No."
"Then you did n't get back to your schedule. If you had done that, you would n't have had any time left to—to think about other things."
"I did n't get beyond the Normandie," he answered. "My schedule stopped short right there."