They had paced the boundaries of the kitchen garden, and as there was nothing more to be shown Elsie Bellmark led the way back to the drawing-room. Parkinson was still engrossed in his book, the only change being that his back was now turned towards the high paling of clinker-built oak that separated the two gardens.
“I will speak to my man,” said Carrados, turning aside.
“He hurried down and is looking through the fence, sir,” reported the watcher.
“That will do then. You can return to the car.”
“I wonder if you would allow me to send you a small hawthorn-tree?” inquired Carrados among his felicitations over the teacups five minutes later. “I think it ought to be in every garden.”
“Thank you—but is it worth while?” replied Mrs Bellmark, with a touch of restraint. As far as mere words went she had been willing to ignore the menace of the future, but in the circumstances the offer seemed singularly inept and she began to suspect that outside his peculiar gifts the wonderful Mr Carrados might be a little bit obtuse after all.
“Yes; I think it is,” he replied, with quiet assurance.
“In spite of——?”
“I am not forgetting that unless your husband is prepared on Monday next to invest one thousand pounds you contemplate leaving here.”
“Then I do not understand it, Mr Carrados.”