I said good night to him at the door of his room and closed it behind me. I had not taken more than a couple of steps when I heard him softly lock it. I went down to Julia in the drawing-room.
Even on a warm summer's evening, when the windows stand wide open, I like a wood fire. Outside the heavens were a beauteous pink glow, with one amber star. The trout were rising for their evening meal, and a sedge-warbler sang short sweet phrases. From time to time a moorhen scuttered along the surface of the pond, and the smell of night-flowering tobacco floated into the quiet room. But Julia had no wish to go out. Into a pair of my sister's slippers she had thrust her worsted-clad feet, and she was toasting her toes and smiling into the fire.
"Is that window too much for you?" I asked.
"No."
"Then put this shawl over your shoulders. You'll have hot milk to go to bed with."
"Thank you, George."
"And now," I said, drawing up my chair opposite to her, "tell me what's happened since Wednesday."
She mused. "Happened to him?"
"I want to know all that you did. Did you go to him?"
"No. He turned up at the Boltons this morning and dragged me out, exactly as he said."