Ingworth sat down upon the lawn at her feet. Dusk was at hand. The sun was sinking to rest and the flowers of the garden were almost shouting with perfume.
Rooks winged homeward through the fading light, and the Dog Trust gambolled in the middle-distance of the lawn as the cock-chafers went booming by.
. . . "Think I shall be able to do it, Mrs. Gilbert?"
"Of course you will, Dicker! Put your very heart into it, won't you! It's your chance at last, isn't it?"
Ingworth jumped to his feet. "I shall do it," he said gravely, as who should say that the destinies of kingdoms depended upon his endeavours.
"And now I must go in and write some letters. I shall have to be off quite early to-morrow, Mrs. Gilbert."
"I'll arrange all that. Go in and do your letters. We're not going to dine till eight to-night."
Ingworth crossed the lawn and went into the house.
Gilbert drew his chair up to his wife.
She held out her hand. He took it, raised it to his lips and kissed it. He was at home.