"Wouldn't let me pass—like," said the waiter.
"Only his play," said Edward. "He merely wants his dinner. You've been rather a long time bringing his biscuits. I expect he thought you'd got them in your pocket."
"Sorry, sir," the waiter said, and explained that, being single-handed at that hour, he had had to attend to the other party's lunch, "in the garden, sir," he added, "though why the garden when everything's nice and ready in here—to say nothing of earwigs in your glass, and beetles, and everything to be carried half a mile—" He ceased abruptly.
"I should like to see the garden," said Edward, "while I'm waiting."
"Lunch ready directly, sir," said the waiter. "Hardly worth while to have it out there now, sir—"
"Which way?" Edward asked, and was told. He went through the hall, under a vine-covered trellis, and the garden blazed before him—a really charming garden, all green and red and yellow; beyond the lawn was an arbor with a light network of hops above it. In that arbor was a white-spread table. There was also movement; people were seated at the table.
Edward stood in the sunshine between two tall vases overflowing with nasturtiums and lobelias and opened his letter.
"Good-by," it said, "and thank you a thousand times. I shall never forget your kindness. But when I had time to think I saw that it wasn't fair to you. But you showed me the way out of the trap. And, now I am free, I can go on by myself. I don't want to drag you into any bother there may be. It would be a poor return for your kindness."
Initials followed—"K. D."