Never could the spot have justified its name more thoroughly than at this hour.
The syringa bloom had fallen during the past week. No odour, save the delicate, intangible freshness of sea and moor, met the sense. There was not a wrinkle on the far Atlantic, not a cloud in the arch of sky. They chose a plot of grass for their breakfast-table so small of dimensions, it was not possible to sit far apart. They had their platter of cake, their jug of milk in common. Surely no shepherd or shepherdess in real Arcadia was ever lighter of spirits than were these two!
‘I have learned the taste of nectar,’ said Geff, when the wedges of cake had vanished, when the milk-jug stood empty. ‘In repayment of your hospitality, Miss Bartrand, I am going to bring a sharp accusation against you.’
‘Which is?’ Marjorie asked, her blue eyes meeting his with steadiness.
‘The nectar you give may perhaps be poisoned, an enchanted philtre taking the taste out of all one’s future life.’
‘I should call that a cruel, an unjust accusation,’ cried the girl, her cheeks ablaze. ‘Explain yourself! I don’t like a thing of this kind said, even in jest.’
‘I was never farther from jesting. Poison is a harsh word, certainly: still—still,’ broke off Geoffrey, with the abrupt courage of a shy wooer, ‘do you think a man could ever be as well contented with the grayness and plainness of English life after an hour spent here, in Arcadia, at your side?’
Her face grew graver and graver.
‘If you mean this for nonsense talk, Mr. Arbuthnot, you offend me. I do not care for flattery.’
Marjorie Bartrand rose to her feet. As Geoffrey followed her example, he took out his watch, then replaced it in his pocket without noticing the hour. Both were a little pale; both had grown suddenly constrained. An unaccustomed mist made the familiar objects round her seem blurred in Marjorie’s sight.