“To-morrow,” she mused aloud, knees cradled in her clasped fingers, “to-morrow they'll shoot—with great circumstance and fuss—a few native woodcock—there's no flight yet from the north!—a few grouse, fewer snipe, a stray duck or two. Others will drive motor cars over bad roads; others will ride, sail, golf—anything to kill the eternal enemy.”
“And you?”
“Je n'en sais rien, monsieur.”
“Mais je voudrais savoir.”
“Pourquoi?”
“To lay a true course by the stars”; he looked at her blue eyes and she laughed easily under the laughing flattery.
“You must seek another compass—to-morrow,” she said. Then it occurred to her that nobody could guess her decision in regard to Quarrier; and she partly raised her eyes, looking at him, indolent speculation under the white lids.
She liked him already; in fact she had liked few men as well on such brief acquaintance.
“You know the majority of the people here, or coming, don't you?” she inquired.
“Who are they?”