"Of course I realize he is an old friend of yours, and likes to be with you, and all that," Sarle conceded. "But so do I. I want to show you the garden . . . by myself." He looked pleadingly and intently into her eyes until her lids fell and a soft flush suffused her cheeks. His glance drank in every detail of her fresh, sweet beauty.
"What's that funny little patch of white on your hair?" he asked suddenly. "I have been puzzling about it all the evening. Is it a new fashion?" She shook her head.
"He's coming back." From where she sat she could see Kenna the moment he entered the room.
"Promise you will come to the garden," he urged.
"Yes," she said softly.
"No matter how long it takes to get rid of him?"
"Yes."
"Even if we have to pretend to say good-night? . . . I shall be waiting for you . . . you'll come?" She nodded; there was no time for more. Kenna was upon them, very cross at having his dinner interrupted, and with an eye cocked searchingly upon April. But neither she nor Sarle gave any sign of what had passed.
Later, when they were round their coffee in the lounge, the hall-porter brought her some letters on a salver. She saw Kenna looking at her satirically as she examined the superscriptions. All were addressed to Lady Diana Vernilands, and the problem of what she was to do about letters was one not yet considered.
"Don't let me keep you from your interesting correspondence," he remarked, and April started, to find that they were alone. Sarle had gone across to Leon to get some cigars.