“ The Grey Feather ⁠ ⁠… is your title,” he repeated, while Christie managed with fair success to conceal her face in a dense cloud of smoke.

“No,” she said, “I’ve called it Slate .”

The astonishment with which he received this piece of news was quite genuine.

“Because of the view from your window?” he enquired.

“No. Because of⁠—”

But the creaking of his wicker-chair, as he resumed his seat with a helpless groan, drowned her faint words.

“I didn’t hear, Chris,” he said. But he knew by the way she raised her chin that nothing would induce her to repeat what she had just uttered.