"I am awfully sorry," he said, hesitating. "Perhaps it would do another time."
"What is it about?" Stafford asked. "Will it take long?"
"As far as I am concerned, only a few minutes."
There was a significance in the tone of Travers' answer which passed unnoticed. Stafford rose lazily to his feet.
"Perhaps you'll give us the run of your garden for just so long, Mrs. Cary?" he said. "I'm not going to let Travers cheat me out of my promised cup of tea. Come on, my dear fellow. I'm ready for the worst."
The two men went down the verandah steps, and Mrs. Cary and her daughter remained alone. Beatrice returned at once to her contemplation of the fashion-plates, her attitude enforcing silence upon the elder woman, who stood by the round polished table nervously arranging the flowers. Evidently she had something to say, but for once had not the courage to say it. At last, with one of those determined gestures with which irresolute people strive to stiffen their wavering wills, she pushed the flowers on one side, and came and sat directly opposite Beatrice.
"Have you got a few minutes to spare?" she asked.
Beatrice looked up, and put the papers aside.
"As many as you like."
Mrs. Cary's eyes sank beneath the direct gaze, and she began to play with the rings that adorned her fat fingers.