He shook her deliberately by the hand without appearing to notice her blank looks.
“So I came south and shall finish up at Biarritz, which they say is going to be fashionable. I hope it is not inconvenient for you to give me a bed—a solid one—for a night or two.”
“Oh no!” answered Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, who had charming manners, and was one of those fortunate persons who are never at a loss. “Did you not receive my telegram?”
“Telling me you were counting the hours till my arrival?”
“Well,” admitted Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, wisely reflecting that he would ultimately see the telegram, “hardly so fervent as that—”
“Good Lord!” interrupted Turner, looking behind her toward the veranda, which was cool and shady, where two men were seated near a table bearing coffee-cups. “Who is that?”
“Which?” asked Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, without turning to follow the direction of his glance. “Oh! one is Dormer Colville, I see that. But the other—gad!”
“Why do you say gad?” asked the lady, with surprise.
“Where did he get that face from?” was the reply.
Turner took off his hat and mopped his brow; for it was very hot and the August sun was setting over a copper sea.