Her husband's name gave Marie a stab of pain. For a little while she had resolutely pushed him into the background of her thoughts. She sat up when Feathers spoke of him, and the look of quiet contentment faded from her eyes.
What was Chris doing now? And why was he not here beside her instead of this man? Then she looked at Feathers' kind, ugly face and remorse smote her.
He was such a good friend. She knew she ought to be grateful to him for the unobtrusive help he had tried to give her.
148 But she could not resist one question: "You and Chris used to go about together a great deal?"
"Yes; nearly always."
"And now—I suppose I have spoilt it all. Have I?"
Feathers' face hardened. "I wish I could be sure that you had," was the answer that rose to his lips, but he checked it, and only said:
"I have told you you must not talk nonsense." He pointed ahead.
"That is the inn. I hope you are hungry."
He ran the car into a queer, cobble-stoned yard, and drew up at the door of the inn.