“If you telephone home now,” she said coolly, “a servant will have ample time to bring your things.”
“By God, yes!” said Godfrey, angrily depositing the sheaf of periodicals on her luggage.
“Have you got the tickets?”
“Of course.”
He marched away across the station.
“Porter——” said Lady Edna.
But no porter was there, for, unperceived by either of the lovers, Baltazar had slipped five shillings into the man’s hand and told him to come back later.
“There’s heaps of time,” said Baltazar. “Now, my dearest lady, what is the good of make-believe? Cards on the table. You’re going to make a bolt with Godfrey and throw your cap over the windmills. There’s a nice little cottage in a wood—in the depths of the New Forest, I presume, lent you by a friend who is represented by one solitary old woman.”
“How do you know that?” she asked, her soft eyes hardening in their characteristic way. “Godfrey has surely not been such a——“—she paused for a word—“well—such an imbecile as to tell you?”
“Godfrey has told me nothing. You may be certain of that. His fury against me is sufficiently obvious.”