"If there is anything an unworthy substitute can do," Burton began,—
"Nice girls do not accept substitutes for their fiancés," Edith interrupted, ruthlessly. "I am a very nice girl indeed. I think that you are very lazy this afternoon. You would be better employed at work than in talking nonsense."
Burton sighed.
"I tried to work this morning," he declared. "I gave up simply because I found myself thinking of you all the time. Genius is so susceptible to diversions. This afternoon I couldn't settle down because I was wondering all the time whether you were wearing blue linen or white muslin. I just looked out of the window to see—you were asleep in the hammock . . . you witch!" he murmured softly. "How could I keep sane and collected! How could I write about anybody or anything in the world except you! The wind was blowing those little strands of hair over your face. Your left arm was hanging down—so; why is an arm such a graceful thing, I wonder? Your left knee was drawn up—you had been supporting a book against it and—"
"I don't want to hear another word," Edith protested quickly.
He sighed.
"It took me about thirty seconds to get down," he murmured. "You hadn't moved."
"Shall we have tea out here or in the study?" Edith asked.
"Anywhere so long as we escape from this," Burton replied, gazing across the lawn. "What is it?"
A man was making his way from the house towards them, a man who certainly presented a somewhat singular appearance. He was wearing a long linen duster, a motor-cap which came over his ears, and a pair of goggles which he was busy removing. Edith swung herself on to her feet. Considering her late laments, the dismay in her tone was a little astonishing.