August throbbed and flared to a tropical consummation.
Gareth's holiday would finish to-morrow. And Kathleen's. How much of what each had separately found would be capable of transplantation to Pacific Villa, Hammersmith?
"Mr. Temple. Did you know that we live quite close to you, in London?"
Gareth had not known. It was something of a shock to realize that henceforth and at any moment a stout spectre might glide up behind him, touch him on the shoulder, beckon mysteriously—"A word with you. In private." And then: "Mr. Temple. Is the day wet or fine?"...
Gareth was not quite sure if the tidings of her future proximity were blessed.
And Kathleen?
"Nap—I shall see you in London?" tensely.
"Well, what do you think? Perhaps not," he drawled, teasing her.
"When? Where? It won't be easy. It won't be the same as here."