should suddenly pounce out on them? Or Renny? Or terrible Grandmother Whiteoak?
When they were alone in the spacious, heavily furnished hotel bedroom, utterly alone, with only the deep rumble of the traffic below to remind them of the existence of the world, a sudden feeling of frozen dignity, of aloofness from each other, took possession of them.
"Not a bad room, eh? Think you'll be comfortable here?" And he added, almost challengingly: "It's one of the best rooms in the hotel, but if there's anything you'd like different—"
"Oh, no. It's nice. It'll do nicely, thank you."
Could they be the young runaway couple who had raced along the lake-shore road, singing and eating oranges?
"There's your bag," he said, indicating the ponderous portmanteau.
"Yes," she agreed. "I've got the bag all right."
"I wonder what we'd better do first," he added, staring at her. She looked so strange to him in this new setting that he felt as though he were really seeing her for the first time.
"What time is it?"
"Half-past five."
She noticed then that the sun had disappeared behind a building across the street, and that the room lay in a yellowish shadow. Evening was coming.
"Hadn't you better send the telegrams?"
"I expect I had. I'll go down and do that, and see that we've a table reserved; and, look here, shouldn't you like to go to the theatre to-night?"
Pheasant was thrilled at that. "Oh, I'd love the theatre! Is there something good on?"
"I'll find out, and get tickets, and you can be changing. Now about those telegrams. How would it do if
