"Well, don't waste time—get in," Chris struck in bluntly. He took his seat again beside his wife and drove on.
Marie felt strained and nervous. She tried hard to think of something to say. She knew it would be the most natural thing in the world for her to turn and speak to Feathers, but she could not force herself to meet his eyes.
"You're very talkative," Chris said with faint sarcasm, looking 191 down at her. He glanced over his shoulder at Feathers.
"Was she was quiet as this when you took her out, Feathers?"
Feathers laughed, and made some evasive answer. He tried not to look at Marie, but his eyes turned to her again and again. It seemed a lifetime since they had met, and it filled him with unreasonable jealousy to see her sitting by his friend's side as once she had sat by his, and to know that she belonged to Chris— irrevocably.
It had cost him a tremendous effort to keep away from her. Chris had asked him to the house a dozen times since his return, but he had always managed to avoid going. What was the use? He had had his little hour of life. There was nothing more to hope for.
Mrs. Heriot was out in the road looking for them when they drew up at the inn. A faint shadow crossed her face when she saw Marie, though she was effusive in her welcome.
"And Mrs. Lawless too! How delightful—and how perfectly splendid you are looking, Chris!"
Chris walked on with her to the inn, and for a moment Marie and Feathers were left together.
They both tried to think of something to say, but even ordinary conversation seemed difficult.