"Do let us settle on what to do," begged the hostess. "Shall we walk with the guns or go home at once?"
"And is it to be the spinney or Daggs Farm?" cried the host. "Come, now, we can't wait about all day, you know."
"But we often wait about an hour after luncheon at Puddlewood, you know," objected the duke. "I say, Doody, don't we often wait about an hour after luncheon at Puddlewood?"
"Mrs. Darling and Sir Caryll are quite out of sight now," announced Charlotte Grey, slinging her blue scarf around her throat. "I wonder what they're saying."
As a matter of fact, at just that second they were not saying anything. They were stopping and trying to think, and their pulses were interfering rather too much for cool comfort.
They were at the Lower Stream Stile, which was a picture spot in the park. At the moment the picture had the deeper meaning always added by human figures.
Nina sat on the second step of the stile, and Sir Caryll sat on the lowest, cuddled in close by her feet. He had her hand in his and his eyes were raised to her face.
Affairs had moved on very fast—even since luncheon half an hour ago.
"Tell me the truth—your husband is really dead?" the man demanded passionately. "It isn't some horrible spasmodic playfulness of yours to talk loneliness and all that while really—"