And yet—he thought of the supper party where he had met Annabel Pellissier, the stories about her, his own few minutes’ whispered lovemaking! He was a self-contained young man, but his cheeks grew hot at the thought of the things which it had seemed quite natural to say to her then, but which he knew very well would have been instantly resented by the girl whom he had just left. His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away. At the door through which she had entered the room stood the so-called Monsieur Valade. Think! Had you not better hurry back before Sir John discovers? You are his wife right enough.
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