“Miss Joan’s out.”
“Will she be back soon?”
“Can’t say.”
“Is it any use my waiting?”
The tart person was considering the situation and the nature of her visitor. She knew his face and yet could not fix a name to it for the moment.
“Better leave a card,” she said. “You might possibly find Miss Joan in the meadow. She’s vagarious, and I ain’t a prophet.”
“Which way?”
“Down the drive, sir, and by the path on the left.”
“Thanks.”
“What name, sir?”