That beautiful woman, surely “God’s most wonderful handiwork”, to whom Will is speaking now, is Maxine Elliott; she is Jill’s God-mother, another of the lovely women whose faces are only the mirrors of the natures which lie beneath.
The sound of the piano reaches me, and I look to see if Lawrence Kellie is still playing, and have to look twice before I can believe that it is not he who sits playing, but Raymond Rose, who is so wonderfully like him. Perhaps he is at work composing, not this time for His Majesty’s Theatre, but, like Henry Purcell, for “that blessed place where only his music can be excelled”.
Then the gate at the end of the garden opens, and, carrying a bag of golf clubs, and clad in an old coat and equally old trousers which seem to be “draped” round his ankles, comes Harry. He comes up to the window, full of the joy of life and never-ending youth; leaning his arms on the window-sill, he looks at the men and women in the garden, and smiles.
“Our friends,” I tell him.
And he repeats after me, “Yes, our friends.” After a moment he goes on, thoughtfully: “I used to tell you that ‘Friendship was a question of streets’; I think I was wrong: it’s something more than that.” And, as if to prove his words, we both see Malcolm Watson walking in the garden, the kindly Scot, who never fails anyone, a real friend of countless years.
Photograph by Miss Compton Collier, London, N.W.6. To face p. [237]
Apple Porch
“I think it is—something more than that,” I answer.
As we talk, the sun suddenly blazes out, filling all the garden with light; Harry stretches out his hand, smiling, and says: “Sunshine! Let’s go out!”