"Tire trouble, perhaps," he ventured.
Tea was being brought in when the belated guests arrived. Courtney, spurred by the brief vision of success ahead, was never in better form, never more entertaining, never so well provided with polite cynicisms. Later on, when he and Alix were alone and he was putting on his raincoat in the hall, she said to him impulsively:
"I don't know what I should have done without you, Mr. Thane. You were splendid. I was in no mood to be nice or agreeable to anybody."
"Alas!" he sighed. "That shows how unobserving I am. I could have sworn you were in a perfectly adorable mood."
"Well, I wasn't," she said stubbornly. "I was quite horrid."
"Has anything happened to—to distress you, Miss Crown?" he inquired anxiously. His voice was husky and a trifle unsteady. "Can't you tell me? Sometimes it helps to—"
"Nothing has happened," she interrupted nervously. "I was—just stupid, that's all."
"When am I to see you again?" he asked, after a perceptible pause. "May I come tonight?"
"Not tonight," she said, shaking her head.
She gave no reason,—nothing more than the two little words,—and yet he went away exulting. He walked home through the light, gusty rain, so elated that he forgot to use his cane,—and he had limped quite painfully earlier in the afternoon, complaining of the dampness and chill. He had the habit of talking to himself when walking alone in the darkness. He thought aloud: