Cleopatra dreaded the night; but she also dreaded the dawn. Denis, sunburnt, athletic, efficient at everything he undertook, Denis ironical, pensive, independent, Denis revealed anew to her in a way she had least expected, was obviously either humouring a flapper most shamelessly—or—or——
The alternative could not be articulated. To have pronounced it would have lent it a reality that it must not possess. It was, however, in the effort not to frame the alternative that her vigils were kept. And it is extraordinary how one can perspire even on the coolest night over such an effort.
CHAPTER X
"Peachy, what do you think has happened? Oh, do guess!"
The voice was Leonetta's. The question was followed by a laugh, a laugh that spoke at once of triumph and merriment.
It was lunch-time on the morning of the ninth day of their holiday. Mrs. Delarayne, in the garden of "The Fastness," was stretched on her chaise-longue reading. Beside her Cleopatra, who had not felt inclined for a bathe that morning, and who, therefore, had not been into Stonechurch, was working at some fancy embroidery.
"I haven't any idea," Mrs. Delarayne replied, as Leonetta stalked up the garden path with Denis at her side, followed by Vanessa, Guy Tyrrell, and the Fearwells. They all had their wet bathing things with them, and even the matronly Vanessa had her hair hanging over her shoulders.
"Why, the man in the sweetstuff shop at the corner of the High Street took Denis and me for husband and wife!" Leonetta exclaimed, bursting with laughter once more.