Roddy looked big and solid sitting there. Rachel sat, even now uncertain that she did not see Francis Breton in front of her, looking down, as she did, into the shadowy garden.
"I hope," she said abruptly, "that you don't like Monty Carfax."
"I've never thought about him," he said. "He's certainly no pal of mine—why?"
"Because I hate him," she said fiercely. "What right has he got to exist on a night like this?"
"He's always supposed to be a very clever feller," Roddy said slowly. "But I think him a silly sort of ass—knows nothin' about dogs or horses, can't play any game, only talks clever to women——"
"I can't bear that sort of man and I don't like Mr. Garden either. He's so fat and he loves his food."
"So do I," said Roddy quite simply. "I love it too. It was a jolly good dinner to-night."
She said nothing and then, when he had waited a little, he said anxiously:
"I say, Miss Beaminster, we've been such jolly good friends—all these weeks. And yet—sometimes—I'm afraid you think me the most awful fool——"
She laughed. "I think you are about some things, but then—so am I about a good many things—most of your things——"