A grass path ran between great banks of rhododendrons from the terrace towards the garden, and at the end a pergola stretched a red riot of roses parallel to the field. Suddenly at the end of the path, at the point where it met the pergola, Roland saw, framed in an arch of roses, a tall, graceful woman walking slowly on Gerald’s arm, her head bent quietly towards him. At that distance Roland could not distinguish her features, but the small oval face set in the mass of light yellow hair was delicate and the firm outlines of her body suggested that she had only recently left her girlhood behind her.
“Who’s that?” asked Roland.
“That! Oh, that’s Aunt Beatrice.”
“But who’s Aunt Beatrice?”
“Uncle Arnold’s wife.”
“What!”
Roland could hardly believe it: so young a woman married to that shriveled, prosaic solicitor.
“Oh, yes,” said Muriel, “they’ve been married nearly three years now; and they’ve got such a darling little girl: Rosemary; you’ll see her to-morrow. She’s got the loveliest hair. It crinkles when you run your fingers through it.”
“But—oh, well, I suppose it’s rather cheek, but he’s years older.”
“Uncle Arnold?” replied Muriel cheerfully. “Oh, yes, I think he must be nearly fifty.” Then after a pause, light-heartedly as though the possession of a family skeleton was something of an honor, “I don’t think they like each other much.”