“Extraordinary to you, no doubt. But you are a Galahad, Mr. Garlett.”
Her words were like the lash of a whip: he grew red under his tan, and looking at her straight for the first time during this, to him, most trying conversation, “I’m a very ordinary chap,” he said deliberately.
Neither of them spoke for a few moments. Harry Garlett turned and looked unseeingly out of the window. He was longing for the uncomfortable interview to end, and it was with relief that he heard her say:
“I must be going back to the Thatched Cottage now. Good-bye, Mr. Garlett, and thank you for all your kindness.”
“Good-bye and good luck!”
He tried to wring her hand, but it felt like a lump of dead, cold flesh.
All at once the door opened behind them. “Agatha? Oh, here you are!”
It was Miss Prince.
“I beg your pardon,” she exclaimed, glancing sharply from the one to the other.
“We were just saying good-bye,” said Harry Garlett quickly. “And I’ll bid you good-bye, too, Miss Prince, for I’m going away this afternoon, and I don’t expect to be back this side of Christmas.”