“I’ve decided not to let the house,” said Olivia.
The smile vanished from his eyes. “I’m sorry,” said he stiffly. “I was given to understand——”
“Yes, I know,” she said quickly. Her conscience getting hold of the missing arm smote her. “Where have you come from?”
“Oxford.”
She gasped. “Why, that’s a hundred miles!”
“Ninety-four.”
“But you must be perishing with cold,” she cried. “Do come in and get warm, at any rate. Perhaps I can explain. And your man, too.” She pointed. “Round that way you’ll find a garage. I’ll send the maid. Please come in, Major Olifant. Oh—but you must!”
She entered the house, leaving him no option but to follow. To divest himself of his Burberry he made curious writhing movements with his shoulders, and swerved aside politely when she offered assistance.
“Please don’t worry. I’m all right. I’ve all kinds of little stunts of my own invention.”
And, as he said it, he got clear and threw the mackintosh on the oak chest. He rubbed the knuckle of his right hand against the side of his rough tweed jacket.