Garstin turned on his heel and tramped away towards Berkeley Street.
“You are going home by Park Lane?” said Braybrooke, feeling greatly relieved, but still rather upset.
“Yes. But why don’t you take me somewhere to tea?”
“Nothing I should like better. Where shall we go?”
“Let’s go to the Ritz. I had meant to walk, but let us take a taxi.”
There was suddenly a change in Miss Van Tuyn. Braybrooke noticed it at once. She seemed suddenly restless, almost excited, and as if she were in a hurry.
“There’s one!” she added, lifting her tightly furled umbrella.
The driver stopped, and in a moment they were on their way to the Ritz.
“You like Dick Garstin?” said Braybrooke, pulling up one of the windows and wondering what Miss Cronin would say if she could see him at this moment.
“I don’t like him,” returned Miss Van Tuyn. “No one could do that. But I admire him, and he interests me. He is almost the only man I know who is really indifferent to opinion. And he has occasional moments of good nature. But I don’t wish him to be soft. If he were he would be like everyone else.”