Our eyes met.
“I beg your pardon,” said I, “I had no idea——” there I stopped and tried to crawl back to firm ground. Graceful explanations are not best given by one sprawling on his stomach across a sundial.
By the time I was once more on my feet she too was standing.
“It is a beautiful old place,” she said gently, and, as it seemed, with a kindly wish to relieve my embarrassment. She made a movement as if to turn away.
“Quite a show place,” said I stupidly enough, but I was still a little embarrassed, and I wanted to say something—anything—to arrest her departure. You have no idea how pretty she was. She had a straw hat in her hand, dangling by soft black ribbons. Her hair was all fluffy-soft—like a child’s. “I suppose you have seen the house?” I asked.
She paused, one foot still on the lower step of the sundial, and her face seemed to brighten at the touch of some idea as sudden as welcome.
“Well—no,” she said. “The fact is—I wanted frightfully to see the house; in fact, I’ve come miles and miles on purpose, but there’s no one to let me in.”
“The people at the lodge?” I suggested.
“Oh no,” she said. “I—the fact is I—I don’t want to be shown round. I want to explore!”
She looked at me critically. Her eyes dwelt on my right hand, which lay on the sundial. I have always taken reasonable care of my hands, and I wore a good ring, a sapphire, cut with the Sefton arms: an heirloom, by the way. Her glance at my hand preluded a longer glance at my face. Then she shrugged her pretty shoulders.