He had been at the Bombardment of Alexandria and could not quite forget it. . . . "Now if it was Lord Charles what had started this—'—Magneta—' library, then 'e could 'a' been spoke to—Podley!"
It was four o'clock on the afternoon of the day after the Amberleys' dinner-party. Hands was away, staying beside his sick wife, and Rita Wallace proposed to close the library.
She had just got rid of the curate from a neighbouring church, who had discovered the deserted place—and her. Snubbed with skill the boy had departed, and as no one else would come—or if they did what would it matter?—Rita was about to press the button of the electric bell upon her table and summon Snell.
The afternoon sunlight poured in upon the books from the window in the dome.
The place was cool and absolutely silent, save for the note a straying drone-bee made as his diapason swept this way and that.
Even here, as the sunlight fell upon the dusty gold and crimson of the books, summer was calling. The bee came close to Rita and settled for a moment upon the sulphur-coloured rose that stood in a specimen-glass upon her writing-table.
He was a big fellow, and like an Alderman in a robe of black fur, bearing a gold chain.
"Oh, you darling!" Rita said, thinking of summer and the outside world. She would go to Kensington Palace Gardens where there were trees, green grass and flowers. "Oh, you darling! You're a little jewel with a voice, a bit of the real country! I believe you've actually been droning over the hop-fields of Kent!"
She looked up suddenly, her eyes startled, the perfect mouth parted in vexation. Some one was coming, she might be kept any length of time—for the rare visitors to the Podley Library were generally bores.
. . . That silly curate might have returned!