"No visitors are allowed," said the aunt, glancing down at her novel rather impatiently.
"Ah! but you wouldn't count us visitors," said Gerald in his best manner. "We re friends of Mabel's. Our father's Colonel of the th."
"Indeed!" said the aunt.
"And our aunt's Lady Sandling, so you can be sure we wouldn't hurt anything on the estate."
"I'm sure you wouldn't hurt a fly," said the aunt absently.
"Good-bye. Be good children."
And on this they got away quickly.
"Why," said Gerald, when they were outside the little court, "your aunt's as mad as a hatter. Fancy not caring what becomes of you, and fancy believing that rot about the motor lady!"
"I knew she'd believe it when I wrote it," said Mabel modestly. "She's not mad, only she's always reading novelettes, I read the books in the big library. Oh, it's such a jolly room such a queer smell, like boots, and old leather books sort of powdery at the edges. I'll take you there some day. Now your consciences are all right about my aunt, I'll tell you my great idea. Let's get down to the Temple of Flora. I'm glad you got aunt's permission for the grounds. It would be so awkward for you to have to be always dodging behind bushes when one of the gardeners came along."
"Yes," said Gerald modestly, "I thought of that."
The day was as bright as yesterday had been, and from the white marble temple the Italian-looking landscape looked more than ever like a steel engraving coloured by hand, or an oleographic imitation of one of Turner's pictures.