"To Darby," said Gheena, lifting Crabbit. "To Darby Dillon, Dearest, so don't buy the Prussic acid now. Let me alone."
"To Darby Dillon!" repeated Dearest George, sitting down on the damp steps.
CHAPTER XVI
Basil Stafford offered his congratulations on almost the same spot where the three had stood in the autumn.
It was fair spring now, nearly May, with a blue glint on the water. But Gheena had been out for a swim and had come in glowing, while Crabbit still pursued gulls and hoped to catch one.
Darby sat in a sheltered nook. His face had grown thinner; some inward war had drawn lines round his mouth. A lithe figure sat beside him—Psyche, with some of her light gaiety gone too. Basil remarked that he had come to congratulate, and he also looked quiet and subdued.
"Oh, thank you very much," said Gheena. "Lancelot had three helpings of beefsteak pie yesterday, and Dearest is glooming at the Dower House over the expense of putting in radiators. I'll never let mother go there, of course, but the radiators won't matter."
"Even in war time," said Basil thoughtfully. "Mr. Freyne looks quite thin."
"He says we shall lose the war now and nothing will matter," said Psyche, "and he's going out to drive a motor ambulance if they'll take him."
"Everyone," said Gheena, "is doing something now."