She leaned back in her seat and pulled her veil down.
"Do not talk to me here," she said.

"We shall have a quarter of an hour before they can arrive." Borrowdean assented silently.

He was glad of the respite, for he wanted to think.

A few minutes' swift rush through the air, and the car pulled up before a queer, old-fashioned dwelling house in the middle of the village.

A smart maid-servant came hurrying out to assist her mistress.
Borrowdean was ushered into a long, low drawing-room, with open windows leading out on to a trim lawn.