But he smiled as he sank down on to a chair.
His entry into the sweet, old-world garden had been supremely ridiculous. Moreover, he was terribly ashamed of himself as well as rueful.
But his sense of humour was strong enough to save either feeling from overpowering him. His arm began to pain him badly again. He shut his lips tightly and sat still.
Outside he heard a gay young voice. "It is a pity, Jeannette, that the sun does not shine into his room now. See how glorious is its setting to-night."
A pause.
Hugh Michelhurst guessed how the pause was filled by his little hostess's mocking answer:
"Why, Jeannette, how cross you are! And, anyway, in the morning the sun will wake him."
"It may rain, mamzelle."
"Rain?" with a little burst of prettiest laughter. "Why, where are your eyes, Jeannette? Rain? With that sky—that sunset? All, no! Even ma tante would not say that, and she always predicts rain, you know."
"It is her rheumatism, mamzelle; she feels it in her bones."