Crosby is not the sort of man who contemplates marriage. He is wedded to his bachelorhood and his book."
"That's tosh."
"But," she went on, "I very much hope he will let us be his friends."
"Oh, he'll let us right enough; if that's what you want. By the way, we mustn't let the Bennetts know about the accident."
"Didn't Mills tell them?"
"Not he. I fixed it up with old Mills. Mrs. Bennett is a nice old thing, but she'd fuss, and Chip would hate that. I'm glad we let him think it was our car. We can explain to him some day. You see, it really was his fault. He didn't look where he was going—didn't even stop to listen, Mills says. But I don't want him to think we think that."
"I'll leave it to you, Noel. It's getting too complicated for me." Then she remembered something.
"Did you know Eric had gone to Paris to fetch Aunt Connie home?"
He whistled.
"No. Nobody told me."
"Claire only told me this morning. Eric has wired for rooms for her in some small hotel, in
