“There’s no need to meet him, if you don’t want to,” he said.
“No,” said Jill doubtfully.
“New York’s a large place. By the way,” he went on, “to return once more to the interesting subject of my lodger, does your uncle sleep here at nights, do you know?”
Jill looked at him gratefully. He was no blunderer. Her desire to avoid Freddie Rooke was, he gave her tacitly to understand, her business, and he did not propose to intrude on it. She liked him for dismissing the subject so easily.
“No, I think he told me he doesn’t.”
“Well, that’s something, isn’t it! I call that darned nice of him! I wonder if I could drop back here somewhere about eleven o’clock. Are the festivities likely to be over by then? If I know Mrs Peagrim, she will insist on going off to one of the hotels to dance directly after dinner. She’s a confirmed trotter.”
“I don’t know how to apologize,” began Jill remorsefully.
“Please don’t. It’s absolutely all right.” His eye wandered to the mantelpiece, as it had done once or twice during the conversation. In her hurry Jill had replaced the snapshot with its back to the room, and Wally had the fidgety air of a man whose most cherished possession is maltreated. He got up now and, walking across, turned the photograph round. He stood for a moment, looking at it.
Jill had forgotten the snapshot. Curiosity returned to her.
“Where did you get that?” she asked.