“Carried nem. con.,” pronounced Edala.
“Pipes and all—all round I mean, Miss Thornhill?” said Elvesdon.
She looked at him with a smile of half lofty merriment.
“I’m surprised at you, Mr Elvesdon. Disappointed too. Really I am. That’s too thin, yet you could not resist it.”
“Frankly it is,” laughed the culprit. “I’m surprised at myself. Will that do?”
“This time—yes. But—” with a deprecatory shake of the golden head. “Well, let’s make a move.”
“This is no end of a jolly spot whereon to laze away a restful morning,” declared Elvesdon, as snugly disposed in a cane-chair he puffed out contented clouds of smoke.
“Isn’t it?” said Thornhill, who was similarly employed. “And it’s always cool here, however broiling it may be outside, unless of course there’s the hot wind on. That always rakes everything.”
Overhead the boughs of the tall fig-trees, with their wealth of broad leaves, made a most effective canopy. Behind was a high pomegranate hedge, in front young willows fringing a small runnel fed by the dam lower down, where bevies of finks fluttered in and out of their pendulous nests, making the air lively with their cheerful twitter. Glimpsed through an opening here and there the warm sun-rays shot down in golden kiss upon drooping loads of peaches and pears hanging from the fruit trees beyond.
“What’s the latest, Mr Elvesdon? Is there any fresh development in this unrest movement?”