“Oh, no,” Freda laughed. “It wasn’t a husband or even a father. It was just a girl.”
“Well, you’re a bit thinly clad to carry out your high resolve.”
She shivered.
“Nights are longer than I thought.”
“Oh, you’re right there,” said he, “nights can stretch themselves out to infinity. However, we must shorten this one for you. I’d just as soon do it by conversation but your slippers—don’t you think you’d better go back—for this one night?”
“I couldn’t.”
“Well, I approve of high resolves myself. I’m used to them and seeing people offer themselves up on their altar. There’s no real reason why you should give in on any position you took, just because the sun is on the other side of the world. Could you tell me a bit more, maybe? If names mean anything to you at this hour of the night, mine’s Gregory Macmillan. I don’t live here. I’m staying at some hotel or other and I came here on business—that’s what you always say in the States, isn’t it, when you give an account of yourself?”
“You’re English.”
“Oh, God forbid,” he cried, “English! You insult me—but you don’t mean to. No—Irish, Irish, Irish—I should have said it first and have been spared that accusation.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know what your accent was. I see now. It was stupid of me.”