“You need not be afraid,” she answered in a tone almost of contempt. “My husband is in Germany buying goods, or something of that sort—I don’t understand trade—and he will be away a fortnight.”
“Oh, well, that’s all right, let’s have something to eat.”
“What’s the matter with you, you don’t seem a bit pleased to see me?” she said petulantly. Desmond roused himself; the vision was still with him, but here was something more tangible.
“I am sorry, dear, I have been having a long walk in the woods, and I got tired. When we have had a decent dinner and a bottle of the best we can talk over things.”
She looked at him doubtfully for a moment, and then said:
“Perhaps you would rather I went?”
He laughed. “Of course not. It is delightful seeing you. Come on, go and get dressed, I suppose you have brought your things?”
“I left my bag at the station, as I was not certain you were here. Shall I send for it?”
For the moment he hesitated. “Yes, of course. I will tell the waiter. But you gave your name as Mrs. Wheatland?”
“Never mind.”