He was a wonderful
master of deceit."
Francis suddenly took her hands. He had an overwhelming desire
to escape from the miasma of those ugly days, with their train of
attendant thoughts and speculations.
"Let us talk about ourselves," he whispered.
After that, the evening glided away incoherently, with no sustained
conversation, but with an increasing sense of well-being, of soothed
nerves and happiness, flaming seconds of passion, sign-posts of the
wonderful world which lay before them. They sat in the cool silence
until the lights of the returning taxicabs and motor-cars became
more frequent, until the stars crept into the sky and the yellow
arc of the moon stole up over the tops of the houses. Presently
they saw Sir Timothy's Rolls-Royce glide up to the front door below
and Sir Timothy himself enter the house, followed by another man
whose appearance was somehow familiar.
"Your father has changed his mind," Francis observed.
"Perhaps he has called for something," she suggested, "or he may
want to change his clothes before he goes down to the country."
Presently, however, there was a knock at the door. Hedges made
his diffident appearance.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he began, addressing Francis. "Sir
Timothy has been asking if you are still here.
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