Marie looked at him in utter amazement. Was he as ignorant of women as all this? But she did not say what was in her mind—that she believed Mrs. Heriot would welcome notoriety of any sort.
"We won't talk about it any more," she said, hopelessly. "After 84 all, you've got a perfect right to choose your own friends."
"Mrs. Heriot is not a friend. I play golf with her and bridge—that is all. I never make friends of women."
She did not contradict him, and they walked on a little way without speaking; then Marie said suddenly:
"Chris, don't you think we could go home at the end of the week?"
"Go home!" he echoed sharply. "You mean—to Aunt Madge?"
"Yes; I think I'm rather tired of the sea."
"We'll go to-morrow if you like; I shan't be sorry to leave the place myself."
He would have gone that morning in order to escape meeting Mrs. Heriot again. He was more angry with himself than he was with her, for it was slowly dawning upon him that he had allowed himself to be made a fool of, and the feeling was unpleasant.
"I think it will do if we go at the end of the week," Marie said quietly. "I will write to Aunt Madge, so that she will be ready for us."