“Impossible!” thrilling wildly, however.
“If you don’t, I’ll break in. I’ve prowled round here for three nights, and know the place by heart. The leads —”
“For heaven’s sake, go away!”
“Will you come down? I’m spraining the back of my neck, and may slip off this narrow shelf any minute. Do you want to see my mangled remains at the foot of the cliff?”
“No. No. But —”
“Come down. I must have a talk with you—have this thing out or go mad. It’s little to ask!”
Julia glanced behind her at the circular room hung with arras (to keep out draughts and conceal the hot-water pipes), and furnished with a big Gothic bed and hard upright chairs—and thrilled again. She was not the least in love with Nigel, but she suddenly realized that she was nearly nineteen and romance had never entered her life. After all, was love a necessary factor? Might not the romantic adventure be something to remember always, particularly when assisting a most unromantic husband achieve a political career, and entertaining some of the dullest men in London? She hesitated but an instant, then leaned out again.
“I’ll try,” she whispered.
“If you fail, I’ll come to-morrow night.”
“Very well, go into the rose garden—under the oak.”