"Where ?" She drew her chair nearer to him, and whispered the next words in his ear.
"To a lonely little mountain inn--four miles from this." "An inn!" "Why not ?" "An inn is a public place." A movement of natural impatience escaped her--but she controlled herself, and went on as quietly as before: "The place I mean is the loneliest place in the neighborhood.

You have no prying eyes to dread there.

I have picked it out expressly for that reason.

It's away from the railway; it's away from the high-road: it's kept by a decent, respectable Scotchwoman--" "Decent, respectable Scotchwomen who keep inns," interposed Geoffrey, "don't cotton to young ladies who are traveling alone.

The landlady won't receive you." It was a well-aimed objection--but it missed the mark.