Sir Malcolm was always uneasy going back to his wife. It was habit carried over from the first wife. But there would be a house-party for the grouse, and he wanted to be well ahead. Connie, sunburnt and handsome, sat in silence, forgetting all about the landscape.

“A little dull for you, going back to Wragby,” said her father, noticing her glumness.

“I’m not sure I shall go back to Wragby,” she said, with startling abruptness, looking into his eyes with her big blue eyes. His big blue eyes took on the frightened look of a man whose social conscience is not quite clear.

“You mean you’ll stay on in Paris a while?”

“No! I mean never go back to Wragby.”

He was bothered by his own little problems, and sincerely hoped he was getting none of hers to shoulder.

“How’s that, all at once?” he asked.