"Where we went before—the place where Mrs. Heriot is staying."
"Oh!" There was something dry in the little monosyllable that made her say impulsively: "I suggested it. Chris has been so unselfish 232 lately, taking us about all over the place, I thought he deserved a holiday—he likes playing with Dorothy, you know."
"Yes." There was the sound of a car driving up outside, and Feathers said, with obvious relief: "Here they are, I expect."
Chris came into the room a moment later. He looked at his wife anxiously.
"I'm sorry, Marie Celeste," he said. "The wretched car broke down, and it took me half an hour to get it right. I hope you haven't been anxious about us? How are you, old chap?"
The two men shook hands.
"Where is Dorothy?" Marie asked, and Chris looked away from her as he said, "I believe she went straight upstairs to dress."
"I'll go and tell her not to hurry."
Marie ran up to her friend's room, glad to get away for a moment. She knocked at the door, and, getting no answer, turned the handle and went in. Dorothy was standing in the middle of the room, her hands over her face. She had made no attempt to change her frock, and she still wore her coat and the jaunty velvet cap with a jay's wing at the side in which she had started out that morning.
Marie gave a little stifled cry.