"Mr. Warrener is going to Homburg; I tell him everybody says it's deadly dull there this year," murmured Mrs. Adaile.
It was deadly dull in Ostend, too, during the next hour. Both women were rather quiet, and Bletchworth was exceptionally wearisome. But for the fact that it was the farewell evening Conrad would have seen friends among the company and gone to greet them.
However, at last the orchestra finished, and they all got up. A leisurely crowd was flocking to the exit, and—perhaps it was the crowd, perhaps it was Lady Bletchworth—Conrad and Mrs. Adaile were separated from the others for satisfactory seconds.
"Won't you forgive me?" he whispered.
Even a crowd has merits—her hand rested on his arm an instant.
"It must be fate," he said; "I always offend you just when we're going to part. Do you remember?"
She nodded. "I remember." Her glance was very pretty in the moonshine.
"This won't be our last talk together?" he begged. "What are you going to do when we go in?"
"I suppose we shall sit in the garden."
"But—everybody?"