“Certainly not! I’m going to St. James’s Park,” said Winnie decisively, and hurried recklessly across the road, in imminent danger of being run over.
“Now what in thunder’s wrong?” Austin asked himself, but there was no opportunity of asking her, until at length they reached the quietude of Buckingham Gate, and then he found it difficult to begin.
“I’ve such lots to tell you, but it will have to keep till to-morrow night, for I’ve to go around to the ‘Courier’ now,” he said awkwardly. “Give my love to Grace. And—see here, Winnie—what’s wrong, dear?”
“Wrong? What do you mean? Nothing—or—oh, everything, I think! Never mind. Here we are. Good night, Austin.”
She did give him her hand, but withdrew it quickly, and stepped into the waiting lift, which bore her swiftly out of sight.
Austin stood for a few seconds, frowning; then lighted a cigarette, striking the match with an angry jerk, and went on his way feeling exceedingly ill-used!