"He gave us strict orders to send you home at once," laughed Carson, "so Mrs. Capron won't come in."
"Who are the men?" demanded Clem.
"Two brutes just arrived by to-day's boat, with a sea-edge to their appetites. I should say that nothing short of a ten-course banquet would appease them."
Clem's groans were terrible.
"Cook will have prepared half a chicken's wing for me. She always starves me when I'm alone. You come back with me," she commanded Carson. "If you talk beautifully to them they won't notice the lightness of the menu."
"Oh, but I'd rather come when you are prepared," said the graceless Carson. "I'm hungry, too. When you've gone I'm going to ask Miss Chard for a cup of tea." Smiling, he plucked a sea-pink and stuck it in his coat. They were in the garden now on the way to the carriage.
"Deserter! Well, Mary, you'll have to come and let them feed upon your damask cheek—something has got to be done."
Poppy exchanged greetings with Mrs. Capron, and presently the two women drove away, leaving her and Carson standing there with the gleam of the sunlit bay in their eyes. Turning, she found him staring in an odd way at her hair, which she was wearing piled into a crown, with the usual fronds falling softly down. Her lids drooped for a moment under his strange eyes, but her voice was perfectly even and conventional as she asked if he would really care for tea.
"I should, indeed—and to come into the restful grey room I got a glimpse of through the window. It reminded me of a cool, cloudy day in the middle of summer."
Pleasure at his approval brought a faint wave of colour into the face she was determined to mask of all expression. She led the way indoors, he following, his eyes travelling swiftly from the crowned head she carried with so brave an air on her long throat, down the little straight back that was short like the classical women's, giving fine sweeping length from waist to heel.