She led the way to an elm tree fallen in the grass, examined it critically, sat down, and made a place for him at her side.
"So you're going to-morrow? Is that so?"
"It is—probably."
"It's a pity—just as you and Miss Tancred have made friends."
"The best of friends must part," said he lightly.
"Yes. Well, I'm glad you've managed to be nice to her, after all. She's come out in the most astonishing manner since you came. What have you been doing to her?"
"I've done nothing to her, I assure you."
"Ah, you mean you've not been making love to her."
"I don't mean anything of the sort."
Durant was angry. It was borne in upon him that Mrs. Fazakerly was vulgar, after all. She looked at him, and her pince-nez balanced itself on the bridge of her nose, then leapt its suicidal leap. She was amused with the ambiguity of his reply.