“You really should; it is astonishing. Take it away with you; I have done with it.”
“Thanks. I will. You wish to be in London in May? Two clear months before then. Could you be ready in, say, three days to go southwards?”
Isabel was quite prepared for this, but not for the way in which it was put. A man whose character finds its natural expression in little turns of this kind has terrible advantages over a woman not entirely sure of her own purpose. She looked for a moment almost offended; it was the natural instinctive method of defence.
“To go southwards?” she repeated, rolling up the magazine she held.
“The yacht is at Marseilles,” Robert pursued, watching her with eyes half-closed. “The Calders have made every preparation, and some friends of theirs, Mr. and Mrs. Ackerton—very nice people—are to be of the party.”
She answered nothing. As he waited, coffee was brought in.
“I don’t think I know anything of the Ackertons,” Isabel said, naturally, as the servant held the tray.
“They are Somersetshire people, I believe. The lady was a Miss Harkle.”
“Not a daughter of Canon Harkle?”
“Can’t say, I’m sure.”