It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. ‘Thought you were going to break in here,’ he said, in an impatient whisper. Her mouth was an effective tourniquet. 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. They could no longer stay in one place. ‘En effet, it is for this that I was enquiring of this man if he has pen and paper. Lucy slept in the same room as Shari, only ten feet away. . . . "Don't stir," replied Jack. But go on.
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