Frank Rainer burst into a laugh. “On such nights? Then you hadn’t bolted?”
“Bolted?”
“Because I’d done something to offend you? My uncle thought you had.”
Faxon grasped his arm. “Did your uncle send you after me?”
“Well, he gave me an awful rowing for not going up to your room with you when you said you were ill. And when we found you’d gone we were frightened—and he was awfully upset—so I said I’d catch you.... You’re not ill, are you?”
“Ill? No. Never better.” Faxon picked up the lantern. “Come; let’s go back. It was awfully hot in that dining-room,” he added.
“Yes; I hoped it was only that.”
They trudged on in silence for a few minutes; then Faxon questioned: “You’re not too done up?”
“Oh, no. It’s a lot easier with the wind behind us.”
“All right. Don’t talk any more.”