He was pulled up short, and left floundering.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Sheila; ‘I’m very rude. I’m afraid I wasn’t listening. I was thinking of what your mother said. What makes her hate me so?’
‘Hate you! Dear me, no!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re too sensitive. Mother is hurt because I give my confidence to you and not to her. Don’t worry about her. She’ll have to get used to it.’
‘Oh no, she won’t. I am going home to-morrow.’
‘To-morrow?’
‘I had already arranged to, you know,’ Sheila untruthfully assured him.
‘I hope you will stay longer,’ he said earnestly. ‘If mother has offended you she shall apologize. I’ll see to it.’
‘Pray do nothing of the kind. And let’s drop the subject.... Won’t you forgive my inattention and tell me what you were saying?’
They had by now reached a remote part of the garden, a part from which the house was hidden by a mass of sweet peas clustering over trelliswork. A rustic seat on the gravel path by the trim croquet-lawn invited them to rest.