“Still,” she objected, “I don’t want to send you back to Mrs. Olifant racked with indigestion.”
“Mrs. Olifant?” He wore a look of humorous puzzlement.
“I suppose you have a wife and family?”
“Good heavens, no!” he cried, with an air of horror. “I’m a bachelor.”
She regarded him for a few seconds, as though from an entirely fresh point of view.
“But what on earth does a bachelor want with a great big house—with ten bedrooms?”
“Has it got ten bedrooms?”
“I presume Mr. Trivett sent you the particulars: ‘Desirable Residence, standing in own grounds, three acres. Ten bedrooms, three reception rooms. Bath H. and C.,’ and so forth?”
“The Bath H. and C. was all I worried about.”
They both laughed. Myra announced luncheon. They went into the dining-room. By the side of Major Olifant’s plate was a leather case. He flashed on her a look of enquiry, at which the blood rose into her pale cheeks.