“Quite.”
Then followed a long silence. A belated cab rattled past beneath the windows. There was apparently a cowl on the chimney connected with Agatha’s room, for at intervals a faint groaning sound came, apparently from the fireplace.
Agatha leant forward with her chin on her two hands, her elbows on her knees. Her hair hung almost to the ground. She was looking into the coals with thoughtful eyes. The elder tactician waited in respectful silence.
“Suppose-- ” said the girl suddenly, and stopped.
“Yes, my darling.”
“Suppose we accept the Danefords’ invitation?”
“To go to Malta?”
“Yes, to go to Malta.”
Mrs. Ingham-Baker fell into a puzzled, harassed reverie. This modern warfare was so complicated. The younger, keener tactician did not seem to demand an answer to her supposition. She proceeded to follow out the train of her own thoughts in as complete an absorption as if she had been alone in the room.
“The voyage,” she said, “would be a pleasant change if we selected a good boat.”