There was a short silence. For the first time since his arrival John's tranquillity was a little disturbed. There was something almost pathetic in the expression which had flashed for a moment over his hostess's face. Was she really lonely, he wondered? Perhaps she had some sort of unhappy love history underneath her rather hard exterior. He was disposed just then to judge the whole world charitably, and he had never believed the stories which people were so anxious to tell of her. He felt no desire to pursue the subject.
"I have never read any of Mrs. Henderson's books," he remarked.
She stretched out an arm, took a volume from the swinging table by her side, and threw it across to him.
"You can glance through that while you dress," she said.
A gong rang through the house a few moments later, and the butler brought in two cocktails on a little silver tray.
"We are having quite a solitude à deux, aren't we?" Lady Hilda remarked, as she raised her glass. "I'll go and ring up Flo on my way up-stairs."
They parted a few minutes later, and John went up to his room. He found his clothes carefully laid out, a bright fire burning, and a bath-room leading from his bedroom. He dressed in somewhat leisurely fashion, and the dinner-gong rang as he descended the stairs. He could hear Lady Hilda's voice talking on the telephone, and made his way to her little room. She had just laid down the receiver.
"It seems," she said, "that you and I are the only people who appreciate the country at this time of the year. I have just been talking to Flo. She declares that nothing in the world would tempt her down here. She is convinced that all the trees are dropping with damp, and that the mud is inches deep. She won't believe a single word about the sunshine."
"She isn't coming, then?"
Lady Hilda shook her head.