"Oh!" said Jeff, subsiding, conscious, that the question and reply had been given for the benefit of the entire company.
"Rather dainty rubbish, I should say," said Perot, with a sense of saving a situation (and a client). "Love is less majestic in the village—that's all, but perhaps a little sweeter. Ah, Baroness!"—he sighed tumultuously—"Why should you recall—these memories?"
The conversation became general again, and Wray finished his glass and set it down on the edge of the transom.
"What is the matter, Mrs. Cheyne?" he asked. "Aren't you glad to see me?"
"Why should I be?" coolly.
"I don't know. I thought you might be. I stopped at your house. They told me you were here, so I came right down."
"You're very kind—but I didn't leave any instructions."
"No, but they told me. I wanted to see you." "You didn't want to see me the other night."
"I couldn't—I 'phoned you."
"Don't you think it would have been in better taste if you had come yourself?"