She said:
"I'm ready," and against that simple view of her condition I had no argument. But when she paused by the painted drainpipe in the hall and peered under contracted brows for that unveracious tortoiseshell handle, I said hastily:
"Oh, don't trouble about an umbrella."
"I'll maybe need it walking home," she pondered.
"But the car will bring you back."
"Oh, that will be lovely," she said, and laughed nervously, looking very plain. "Do you know, I know the way we're coming together is terrible, but I can't think of a meeting with Chris as anything but a kind of treat. I've got a sort of party feeling now."
As she held the gate open for me she looked back at the house.
"It's a horrid little house, isn't it?" she asked. She evidently desired sanction for a long-suppressed discontent.
