“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 he saw. 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.”
Her smile had come into the open—it was on the red lips now! For all his agitation Roger was not blind to its meaning. His hand was to lock the gate against his friend and chief! But the smile and the eyes commanded. He obeyed.