The following afternoon he went to find Rosamund. She had given him no trysting-place—had not even said that he might come—but Morris knew no uncertainty. He did not go to the house, but sought the shade of the terrace, and found her alone, in the short avenue that led to Bertha’s cherished rock-garden.
She was even paler than usual as she gave him her hand, and Morris, with the intuition that was always his surest guide, greeted her very gently and gravely.
“Where were you going to?” he asked. “May I come with you?”
“I was going into the orchard. It’s cooler there. The others have gone out.”
Morris did not dare to ask her why she had not gone with them. He longed to hear her make the admission that she had been waiting for him, but contented himself with walking beside her in silence as she directed her steps towards the sloping paddock that had been converted into an orchard.
There was a wooden bench set in the furthest corner, and Rosamund sat down there without speaking. Morris flung himself upon the grass.
There was silence.
Then Morris, looking up at her, said:
“Tell me about everything. Everything that the Hungarian dance made you feel last night, and why you say that you’re not musical, and—everything.”
She did not tell him everything. But she told him, with a curious mixture of childish simplicity and of a most unchildish vehemence, a great deal; more even than she knew.