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The vast mirrored chamber, with its four little square window bays, two either side of the large raised dais that led to the French doors, was very full of company for the start of the Little Season. He heard Rollo's stump beat a gentle tattoo on the floor. Eyebrows knitting, she looked towards the ground a few feet away from him, guiltily. Yet there was nothing for her to do. Three times he uttered a phrase: "A djinn in a blue-serge coat!" And each time he would follow it with a chuckle—the chuckle of a soul in damnation. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait. An uncomfortable silence followed. " "And were I in yours," rejoined the woollen-draper, "I should be doubly apprehensive, because he's a professed friend. It will hold aloof, a little undecided whether to pelt or not—” “That depends whether we carry ourselves as though we expected pelting,” said Ann Veronica.
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