"My dear lady! So neighborly of you, and what luck I was in! I'm off Neville's yacht for the evening only on a bit of business. Come up to my den. It's stifling down here."
She followed him up the stairs, feeling a reckless strength for combat. He took her to a room at the front of the house where there was a desk, a few lounging chairs, and an air of mannish comfort.
"I'll not keep you long, Randall," she said, hesitating at first to sit, illogically fearing that weakness might seize her if she relaxed her body. After a moment, however, she took the chair he pushed forward.
"As long as you like, Eleanor. The breeze comes cooler through those south windows while you're here. Let me offer you a brandy and soda. No? You'll let me take this alone, then? Thanks! I'm feeling a bit done up by the heat." He seated himself at the desk, sipped from his glass and looked a question at her. She debated her beginning.
"It's about Gilbert Ewing."
His dark little eyes narrowed upon her with agreeable interest.
"Ah, to be sure—Ewing."
"You know he's been staying a fortnight with us at Kensington."
He nodded a gracious assent, still waiting, still veiled with an effect that aroused all her caution.
"He came back to town yesterday."