No, Miss Daye did not mind. Doyle sat down at the other end of the sofa, and reflected that another quarter of an hour was all he could possibly expect, and then——
“I am going home, Miss Daye,” he said.
Since there was no other way of introducing himself to her consideration, he would do it with a pitchfork.
“I knew you were. Soon?”
“The day after to-morrow, in the Oriental. I suppose Ancram told you?”
“I believe he did. You and he are great friends, aren’t you?”
“We live together. Men must be able to tolerate each other pretty fairly to do that.”
“How long shall you be in England?”
“Six months, I hope.”
She was silent, and he fancied she was thinking, with natural resentment, that he might have postponed his departure until after the wedding. Doyle hated a lie more than most people, but he felt the situation required that he should say something.