Ranny had not pretended to be listening. I don't think he so much as saw how changed the garden was. We talked about the new young man—"awful good sort," according to Ranny. But that testimony, too, he gave in an absent-minded, perfunctory way.
"Can't we sit down?" he said, looking blindly at a garden seat still shining-wet.
I said we'd better walk. I lead him back near enough the house to see if the others had waylaid Eric.
No, just the same group under my mother's window—Hermione and Babs arguing hotly about something. The red-haired young man aiming at an imaginary golf-ball with the crook-handle of his heavy walking-stick, and swinging it violently over his shoulder, that Bettina might see the approved position of feet and body before, and after, a furious drive. Whether Bettina made a practice of asking for this information I cannot say. But every man who came our way, young or old, was seized with an uncontrollable desire to teach Bettina the difference between good form and bad form at the game of golf.
Ranny had been walking with his head bent and no pretence at making conversation. When I stopped, he looked up suddenly and caught sight of the group. He wheeled about, and stood with his back to the house and his face averted from me as well.
"Look here," he said, "why shouldn't we go and meet Annan?—warn him—eh?"
My heart leapt at the suggestion. And yet.... "Why should you want to do that?" I said suspiciously.
"Oh, well, I don't care where we go—only ..." His voice sounded so queer I felt frightened.
"I don't think I'll go back to them just yet," he managed to bring out. "Do you mind?"