For Maule had started visibly at the sound of quick steps mounting to the veranda, and McKeith's towering figure appeared in the doorway, looking at them.
Lady Bridget turned her head, her cigarette in her hand, and glanced up at his face. What she saw in it might have made a less reckless or less innocent woman feel uneasy. She was sure that he must have heard that last speech of hers about visiting Maule in his chambers. Well, she didn't care. Besides Colin hadn't the smallest right to resent any action of hers before her marriage... She did not turn a hair. Maule admired her composure.
'BON SANG NE PEUT MENTIR,' he thought to himself, and wished they had been talking in French.
'You look as grim as the statue of the Commander,' said Lady Bridget. 'What is the matter?'
'Lady Bridget and I have been exchanging unconventional reminiscences,' put it Maule with forced lightness.
McKeith took no notice of either remark, but strode across the room to the roll-top escritoire, where he usually wrote his letters when in his wife's company. He extracted a bundle of papers from one of the pigeon holes.
'This is what I came for. Sorry to have interrupted your reminiscences,' and he went out again, passing along the back veranda.
Maule had got up and was standing at the fireplace. Lady Bridget rose too.
'I'm going to bed. We keep early hours in the Bush.'
'What! Already!' he exclaimed in dismay.