“Next Saturday.”
“It might be before then.”
“I’ll come on Monday.”
“Thank you.”
Francis found his way out into the garden. Through the window he saw Serge take the girl into his arms and kiss her. More than ever he felt that he had been impertinent.
The sun was setting and the mist had almost cleared as Serge joined him. In the west the sky was crimson, straked with indigo clouds. Serge took his father’s arm and said:
“We owe a good deal to that young woman, you and I.”
“Yes,” replied Francis doubtfully. “It seemed to me that she is more than a little in love with you.”
“I hope so.”
“Isn’t that a little dangerous?” Francis felt very bold in making this excursion into psychology, but the pressure of Serge’s hand on his arm reassured him.