Gerard nodded to the boy across the garage, his face gleaming into mirth.
"Coals to Newcastle," he signified. "Everyone doesn't like to live shop."
There was the splashing thud of an overturned bucket. As Gerard passed out the door, Corrie overtook him.
"Gerard," he panted, "Gerard, you said that purposely! You meant to tell me that—that Isabel—that you——"
Gerard regarded him quietly, a little smile curving his lips.
"You meant to tell me that I needn't worry about you and Isabel; that you've seen I want her, and you won't cut in? You meant that?"
The smile crept to Gerard's eyes, but he remained mute. With a quick breath Corrie grasped his companion's hand and squeezed it ardently.
"You're big, Allan Gerard. And kind. For I've been watching, these ten days, and you could get her if you tried."
He turned back into the building before contradiction was possible. After a moment, Gerard went on down the path between the althea bushes.
The "flowing arbor" of Corrie's description was a decorative masterpiece of Mr. Rose's own design; a large, pink marble fountain, surrounded by a pink-columned arcade strewn with rugs and cushions. Whatever its architectural faults, it was a fairy-tale place of gurgling water and soft shadows, shot through with the tints of silver spray, rosy stone and deep green turf. Flavia was seated here, in the summer-warm sunshine of early October that had succeeded the storms of the previous week, a long strip of varicolored embroidery lying across her lap and the overfed Persian kitten nestling against her light gown.