Janet, with a smile of apology, went indoors. Miss Minns was knitting at a distance. This was obviously the right moment to begin, but the words would not come. It all seemed so absurd in this delicious garden with the silence and the peace, and, for want of a better word, the sanity of it all; all the things that Maradick had been thinking, Tony’s story and the fantastic scene in the market-place last night, that and the ideas that had sprung from it, were all so out of line now. People weren’t melodramatic like that, only one had at times a kind of mood that induced one to think things, absurd things.
But Morelli seemed to be waiting for Maradick to speak. He sat gravely back in his chair watching him. It was almost, Maradick thought, as though he knew what he had come there for. It was natural enough that Morelli should expect him, but he had not imagined precisely that kind of quiet waiting for him. He had to clear all the other ideas that he had had, all the kind of picture that he had come with, out of his head. It was a different kind of thing, this sheltered, softly coloured garden with its deep shadows and high reds and browns against the blue of the sky. It was not, most emphatically it was not, melodrama.
The uncomfortable thought that the quiet eyes and grave mouth had guessed all this precipitated Maradick suddenly into speech. The peace and silence of the garden seemed to mark his words with a kind of indecency. He hurried and stumbled over his sentences.
“Yes, you know,” he said. “I thought I’d just come in and see you—well, about young Gale. He told me—I met him—he gave me to understand—that he was here last night.” Maradick felt almost ashamed.
“Yes,” said Morelli, smiling a little, “we had some considerable talk.”
“Well, he told me, that he had said something to you about your daughter. You must forgive me if you think that I’m intrusive at all.”
Morelli waved a deprecating hand.
“But of course I’m a friend of the boy’s, very fond of him. He tells me that he spoke about your daughter. He loves Miss Morelli.”
Maradick stopped abruptly.
“Yes,” said Morelli gently, “he did speak to me about Janet. But of course you must look on it as I do; two such children. Mind you, I like the boy, I liked him from the first. He’s the sort of young Englishman that we can’t have too much of, you know. My girl wouldn’t be likely to find a better, and I think she likes him. But of course they’re too young, both of them. You must feel as I do.”