Virginia said to Ivor with a quick smile:—
“I’m so glad you’ve come, Ivor. I didn’t think you would, really.”
He laughed shyly. Occasions made him shy, not people. He quibbled.
“Yours is a nice car,” he said, “but it’s got no ambition on the hills. We were delayed a little.” That was their greeting.
They walked towards the house. The chauffeur, a suitcase dependent from each hand, passed them and went ahead. There was a silence; and then Virginia said suddenly:—
“You mustn’t mind what George says. My husband, I mean. He’s a child and adores to annoy—and he’s terribly pleased if he succeeds. You won’t let him succeed, will you, Ivor?”
He had realised now the battery of eyes from the terrace; it was a curious feeling, after that long and solitary journey from a solitary place in answer to a telegram; and he suddenly felt very hot and bothered.
“My dear, I won’t mind what any one says if you will let me have the loan of your bathrooms for half an hour or so. I’ve got more than two days’ worth of French dust sticking to me, and feel monstrous.”
“Septic, George would say,” Virginia laughed.
They were almost at one of the open French windows.