He withdrew his glance abruptly.
"It is a guilty conscience," he said.

"I ought not to come back and dine with you to-night.

I ought to put you into a cab and myself into another, go home for my bag and take the night-express to Paris.

The House only rises for ten days and I have to be in my place on the opening night." Mary looked up at him with a friendly air of being disappointed.

She was engaged in putting the wild thyme into a bunch, stalk by stalk.