“Well?” she asked. “How are you to-day? Not so awfully gloomy, I hope.”
“Not at all, dearest,” he laughed, for his old nonchalance had returned to him. “I’ve been full of business since nine o’clock. I have an appointment out at La Muette at two, and I’ll have to get back to London to-night.”
“To-night!” she echoed disappointedly. “We don’t return till next Tuesday.”
“I have to be back to see my people about some cars that can’t be delivered for another six weeks. There’s a beastly hitch about delivery.”
“Well,” said the girl, as they walked side by side in the cold, bright morning. The winter mornings are always bright and clearer in Paris than in London. “Well, I have some news for you, dear.”
“What news?” he asked.
“Lady Teesdale has asked us up to Hawstead, her place in Yorkshire. In her letter to mother this morning she mentions that she is also asking you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. And, of course, you’ll accept. Won’t it be ripping? The Teesdales have a lovely old place—oak-paneled, ghost-haunted, and all that sort of thing. We’ve been there twice. The Teesdales’ shooting-parties are famed for their fun and merriment.”