I rose, and stood in front of her. Still the faint smile on the red mouth.
"Look at me," I commanded.
"It wasn't an 'obey' marriage, was it?" This dreamily.
"Was that ring on that finger when we were in the train?"
Slowly she got up and faced me, her eyes six inches from mine, but still looking away over my head, up at the high elms. Then she put her hands on my shoulders.
"Oh, Saint Anthony," I whispered.
The smile deepened. Then:
"I'll tell you when we separate," she said.
For one dear, short half-hour we had wandered in the park. The sunshot glades hung out an invitation it would have been churlish to refuse. And so in and out of the tall bracken, under the spreading oaks, close to the gentle-eyed deer, we had roamed for a while at will, carelessly, letting the world slip. Sir Peter and his lady taking the air.
And now we were back in the gentle garden, facing the old grey house, watching the smoke rise from a tall chimney, a slight, straight wisp against the background of blue. And—the sun was low.