But the idea of burying the lunch in the garden struck the Atterton family as novel and delightful. And when they were in certain moods there was no withstanding them; so a procession headed by Mrs. Stamford and closed by Andy, each person bearing a plate, actually did creep with caution through the French window of the dining-room.
“A spade,” whispered Bill, to whom the whole thing had already become a thrilling adventure.
“Here’s one,” replied Andy in the same tone; he was gradually warming to the spirit of it all and forgetting his despair. “That’s a good place under the gooseberry bushes.”
“You’ll have some juicy ones next year,” suggested Dick Stamford.
“Now,” said Norah. “We must do the thing in proper style. Mrs. Stamford—you first. Mr. Deane—you didn’t take any.”
“Wise chap. Knew better,” said Dick.
Andy lifted an anxious face from the hole under the gooseberry bushes.
“You surely don’t think——” he began, aghast.
“Rubbish. Of course not. Here, Elizabeth, pop in your lot,” said Norah briskly, but in a guarded tone, and with an eye on the windows of the house. “Give me the spade. I’ll pat him down. Now, let’s creep back to the house. Oh, isn’t it lovely? Don’t you feel as if you had murdered somebody and just been burying the body?”
They sat down again before empty plates, and Andy, half amused and half rueful, paused with a hand on the bell.