She started to speak, checked herself as at a sudden and unpleasant thought, looked up at him searchingly; and found his steel-grey eyes as searchingly fixed on her.
"Where is your bungalow?" she asked, watching him intently.
"Mine is situated at the west end of a coquina quarry. Where is yours?"
"Mine," she answered unsteadily but defiantly, "is situated on the eastern edge of a coquina quarry."
"Why did you choose a quarry bungalow?"
"Why did you choose one?"
"Because the coquina quarry happens to belong to me."
"The quarry," she retorted, "belongs to me."
He was almost too disgusted to speak, but he contrived to say, quietly and civilly:
"You are Constance Leslie, are you not?"