His philosophy of life in general appeared, this afternoon pleasant and genial. He spoke of men who had failed with commiseration and a very wide charity; he seemed to extend his affection to everyone, and said with a smile that “It was only a question of knowing people; they were all good fellows at heart.”
And yet, through it all, Maradick felt as though he were, in some unexplained way, playing at a game. The man was rather like a child playing at being grown-up and talking as he had heard his elders do. He had an impulse to say, “Look here, Morelli, it’s boring you dreadfully talking like this, you’re not a bit interested, really and truly, and we’re only playing this game as a background for the other two.”
And, in fact, that was what it all came to; that was Maradick’s immediate problem that must be answered before any of the others. What was Morelli’s idea about his daughter and Tony? Morelli knew, of course, perfectly well what was going on. You could see it in their eyes. And, apparently, as far as Maradick could see, he liked it and wanted it to continue. Why? Did he want them to marry? No, Maradick didn’t think that he did. He watched them with a curious smile; what was it that he wanted?
And they, meanwhile, the incredible pair with their incredible youth, were silent. It was through no constraint, but rather, perhaps, because of their overflowing happiness. Tony smiled broadly at the whole world, and every now and again his eyes fastened on her face with a look of assured possession, in the glance with which she had greeted him he had seen all that he wanted to know.
Then she turned round to him. “Oh, Mr. Gale, you haven’t seen the garden, our garden. You really must. It’s small, but it’s sweet. You will come, Mr. Maradick?”
Her father looked up at her with a smile. “You take Mr. Gale, dear. We’ll follow in a moment.” And so they went out together. He thought that he had never seen so sweet a place. The high walls were old red brick, the lawn stretched the whole length, and around it ran a brown gravelled path. In one corner was an enormous mulberry leaning heavily to one side, and supported by old wooden stakes and held together by bands of metal. Immediately beneath the wall, and around the length of the garden, was a flower bed filled with pansies and hollyhocks and nasturtiums; it was a blaze of colour against the old red of the wall and behind the green of the lawn.
Underneath the mulberry tree was a seat, and they sat down close enough to make Tony’s heart beat very hard indeed.
“Oh, it’s perfect!” he said with a sigh.
“Yes, it’s very lovely, isn’t it? I’ve never known any other garden, and now you don’t know how nice it is to have some one to show it to. I’ve never had anyone to show it to before.”
The old house looked lovely from the garden. Its walls bulged towards them in curious curves and angles, it seemed to hang over the lawn like a protecting deity. The light of the sun caught its windows and they flamed red and gold.