“Really, we are muddling along nicely. Mother will be all right in a day or two. Danecourt was horribly depressing. And Brian——”
“Tell me,” he whispered. “I offered no wretched condolences. What can be said?”
“Nothing. Even I—I can only guess how she feels. She adored Brian, although she never showed it. I am so sorry for her that I could cry my eyes out here and now. Because she bottles things up, it makes it just twice as hard for me.”
“I understand,” he said. “I understand exactly how you feel.”
She looked sweetly at him, faintly blushing.
“Do you, Arthur?”
They found the bench; Wilverley lighted a cigarette. The sunk rose-garden faced them, surrounded by the yew hedges. In the centre the amorini guarded the fountain, which didn’t play in war-time. This spot was the sanctuary, known as Mon Plaisir. Upon the white stone bench had sat the lovely lady for whom the pleasaunce was planted, and in which, according to tradition, she had passed so many hours kept a prisoner by a jealous husband. Cicely told the story to Wilverley. A more experienced lover would have used this romantic legend as a peg upon which to hang his own love-tale. Wilverley, however, was not apt at transpositions. He listened attentively, charmed by Cicely’s voice, but determined, as soon as she had finished, to plead his suit in words, as has been said, already rehearsed.
Cicely’s voice died away.
Wilverley said incisively:
“Poor little dear! Beastly for her, wasn’t it? No man could coop up a wife that way in our times.”