“You’ll have the sun in your eyes there.”
“I like it.” Their voices began again, his social and expansive, hers clipped and solitary ... the bank of blazing snapdragon grew prominent, told of nothing but the passing of time. What was the time? How much of the morning had gone? There was a moment of clear silence....
“Is Miriam there?”
“She is indeed; very much there.” Again silence, filled with the echo of his comprehensive little chuckle. Miss Prout knew now that it was not the stupidity of a fool that had spoiled her morning. But, if she could go so far, why not carry him off to talk unembarrassed, or talk, here, freely, as she wanted to, like those women in her book?
A servant, coming briskly through the sunlight, stopping half way along the terrace.
“Mr. Simpson.”
“Yes. What have you done with him?”
“He’s in the study.”
“Fetch him out of the study. Bring him here. And bring, lemonade and things.” But he rose as the maid wheeled round and departed. “I’d better get him, I think. He’s Nemesis.”
Miriam rose to escape. “Now don’t you go, Miriam. You stay and see it out. You haven’t met Simpson, Edna. I haven’t. No one has.”