The party resolved itself for Ann Veronica into a game in which she manoeuvred unostentatiously and finally unsuccessfully to avoid talking alone with this gentleman. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. After an affectionate parting with Winifred, Thames was conducted by the carpenter to his sleeping apartment—a comfortable cosy chamber; such a one, in short, as can only be met with in the country, with its dimity-curtained bed, its sheets fragrant of lavender, its clean white furniture, and an atmosphere breathing of freshness. But she had not reckoned with the etiquette of Canongate. “Are we interrupting anything?” “No!” Martin jumped slightly. His own heart was too full of melancholy foreboding. It was an odd little encounter, that left vague and dubitable impressions in her mind.
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