“I'm going to make up for it, sir,” he promised. “And this South American trip,” he continued, as they turned towards the French windows, “you'll call that off?”
Sir Timothy hesitated.
“I am not quite sure.”
When they reached the garden, Lady Cynthia was alone. She scarcely glanced at Francis. Her eyes were anxiously fixed upon his companion.
“Margaret has gone in to make the cocktails herself,” she explained. “We have both sworn off absinthe for the rest of our lives, and we know Hedges can't be trusted to make one without.”
“I'll go and help her,” Francis declared.
Lady Cynthia passed her arm through Sir Timothy's.
“I want to know about South America,” she begged. “The sight of those trunks worries me.”
Sir Timothy's casual reply was obviously a subterfuge. They crossed the lawn and the rustic bridge, almost in silence, passing underneath the pergola of roses to the sheltered garden at the further end. Then Lady Cynthia paused.
“You are not going to South America,” she pleaded, “alone?”