She heard the door opening behind her, took her hands from the mantelpiece, and turned round quickly.
“Mr. Craven, my lady.”
“You’re all ready? Capital! I say, am I late?”
“No. It’s only a little past seven.”
He had taken her hand. She longed to press his, but she did not press it. He looked at her, she thought, rather curiously.
“I’ve got a taxi at the door. It’s rather a horrid night. You’re not dressed for walking?”
Again his look seemed to question her.
She put up a hand to her face, near the mouth, nervously.
“We had better drive. In these winter evenings walking isn’t very pleasant. We must be a little less Bohemian in taste, mustn’t we?”
He seemed now slightly constrained. His eyes did not rest upon her quite naturally, she thought.