The sound was so sharp that as one does after some terrifying nightmare she awoke with a clap of consciousness, sitting up in her chair bewildered. Had some one spoken? Had an aeroplane swooped suddenly down? Had she really slept? Everything now was close upon her, pressing her in—the metallic clash of the band, the voices, the brush of incessant footsteps upon the grass, and Bunny was coming towards her now, his eyes lit. . . . Had some one spoken?
Greetings were exchanged. Victoria could not say very much. She could only press his hand and murmur, "I'm so glad—Millie has told me. Bless you both!"
He smiled, was embarrassed, and carried Millie off for a walk. As soon as they had gone a little way he burst out, "Oh, Mill, why did you? I asked you not to."
"I couldn't help it. I warned you that I hate concealment. I'm very sorry, Bunny, but I can't keep it secret any longer."
She looked up and saw to her amazement that he was angry. His face was puckered and he looked ten years older.
"Have you told any one else?"
"Only my mother and a great friend."
"Friend? What friend?"
"A great friend of Henry's—yes and of mine too," she burst out laughing. "You needn't worry, Bunny. He's a dear old thing, but he's well over forty and I've never been in the least in love with him."
"He is with you, I suppose?"