His foot tapped impatiently, and he took up the papers. “How gratified she must have been! If only I had known I would have made an effort to get home in time for dinner. She shivered, more due to his presence than the changing weather. It had rained during the night, and the patch-work pavement was greasy with mud. ’ ‘I also said, if you remember, that I could not promise not to do so. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. He won’t have menservants inside the house, and his collection of carriages is only fit for a museum—where most of his friends ought to be, by-the-bye.
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