“Just five minutes to get warm and I won’t trespass further on your hospitality.”
She showed him into the drawing-room, thanked goodness there was a showy wood-fire burning, and went out after Myra.
“I thought the house wasn’t to be let,” said the latter after receiving many instructions.
“The letting of the house has nothing to do with two cold and hungry men who have motored here on a raw November morning for hundreds of miles on false pretences.”
She re-entered the drawing-room with a tray bearing whisky decanter, siphon, and glass, which she set on a side table.
“I’m alone in the world now, Major Olifant,” she said, “but I’ve lived nearly all my life with men—my father and two brothers——” She felt that the explanation was essential. “Please help yourself.”
He met her eyes, which, though defiant, held the menace of tears. He made the vaguest, most delicate of gestures with his right hand—his empty sleeve, the air. She moved an assenting head; then swiftly she grasped the decanter.
“Say when.”
“Just that.”
She squirted the siphon.