There was a little silence.
"What do you think of my wife, anyway?" he asked, with a rather forlorn attempt at jocularity.
"What do I think of her?" Feathers echoed. "Well—she's all right," he added lamely. He stopped, and bared his head to the cool sea breeze. "Hadn't we better turn back?" he asked.
They strolled back to the hotel together; a perspiring porter was 105 staggering across the lounge with Marie's luggage. Chris' portmanteau and suit-case stood already by the door.
"We're not going till after lunch," Chris said, "They turn you out of your rooms in a hurry, don't they? I wonder where Marie is?"
"She's sitting over there in the window." Feathers answered.
He had seen Marie as soon as they entered the lounge—seen something in her face, too, that pierced his heart like a knife as he turned deliberately and walked away from her.
He had been prepared to dislike Christopher's wife, because he had thought she would rob him of his friend, but in the last three weeks something seemed to have played pitch and toss with all his preconceived ideas of marriage and women.
He went out into the garden, and stayed there until he knew that lunch must be almost finished, then he strolled in.
Chris and his wife were in the lounge, dressed for traveling. Marie was looking anxiously towards the door as he came slowly forward and her wistful face lightened as she saw him.