The Marchesa had strolled a little way down the road. She was walking back toward the gate when Roger first came in sight. He did not see her until after he had reached the gate. There he stood a moment, considering at what point to attack it—for the barricade was formidable. He came to the same conclusion as Lynborough had reached earlier in the day. "Oh, I'll jump the wall," he said.
"The gate isn't locked," remarked a charming voice just behind him.
He turned round with a start and saw—he had no doubt whom she was. The Marchesa's tall slender figure stood before him—all in white, crowned by a large, yet simple, white hat; her pale olive cheeks were tinged with underlying red (the flush of which Lynborough had dreamed!); her dark eyes rested on the young man with a kindly languid interest; her very red lips showed no smile, yet seemed to have one in ready ambush. Roger was overcome; he blushed and stood silent before the vision.
"I expect you're going to bathe? Of course this is the shortest way, and I shall be so glad if you'll use it. I'm going to the Grange myself, so I can put you on your way."
Roger was honest. "I—I'm staying at the Castle."
"I'll tell somebody to be on the lookout and open the gate for you when you come back," said she.
If Norah was no match for Lynborough, Roger was none for the Marchesa's practised art.
"You're—you're awfully kind. I—I shall be delighted, of course."
The Marchesa passed through the gate. Roger followed. She handed him the key.
"Will you please lock the padlock? It's not—safe—to leave the gate open."