When Hal entered the sitting-room and met Dudley’s eyes she felt, as she afterwards described it to Lorraine, that she was in for it. Yet it was not so very late, barely half-past nine. On the table her supper was still waiting for her.
“We’ve had a slight accident,” she said, taking the bully by the horns; “something went wrong with the steering gear, and it delayed us. Have you had supper?” noticing the table was still laid for two.
“I always have supper at eight on Sundays, because Mrs. White has to clear it away herself, as you know. Isn’t Dick coming in?”
“No. He’s—” Hall stopped short, considering the advantages of prevarication.
“I wanted to see him,” testily. “He said he would give me a particular address tonight. Why is he in such a hurry?”
“It wasn’t Dick who brought me.”
She took off her motor-bonnet and threw it on the sofa, running her hands through her bright hair, and rubbing her cheeks, which were a little cold.
“Not Dick?...” Dudley looked up from his book peremptorily. “Who did bring you?”
Hal took her seat at the table.
“Well, you see, we had a slight accident. We had just stopped to examine the steering gear, when another car came round a curve and crashed into us. Dick’s car was damaged, and...” she reached across for the salad, and helped herself with as unconcerned an air as she could muster... “Oh!... onions!... how scrumptious!... Mrs. White always remembers my plebeian tastes, but not my patrician ones.”