He looked at Mrs. Castillyon with heavy eyes, and since, like most men, love arose in his heart as an accompaniment to the satisfactory process of digestion, he gave her a peculiarly sensual smile.
“I say, Grace, don’t you think you could come away for a week-end somewhere?”
“Oh, I couldn’t risk it. It would be too dangerous.”
“Not if we go somewhere quiet. It would be a beano!”
Her heart beat quickly, and under those handsome, lazy eyes she felt a curious defaillance; his hand rested on the table, large, soft and smooth, and the sight of it sent through her an odd thrill.
“Paul’s going up to the North to speak next month,” she said. “That’s our chance, isn’t it?”
The risk fascinated her, and the whim for Reggie grew on a sudden to an ardent passion for which she was willing to venture all things.
“I say, I’ve got an idea,” she whispered, with sparkling eyes. “Let’s go to Rochester. Don’t you remember, Basil Kent spoke of it the other day? I could easily say I was going down to see the view or whatever it is. I believe it’s a dull hole, and nobody goes there but Americans.”
“All right,” he said. “That’ll do A1.”
“Now we must be getting off. Call for the bill.”