"Our lodgings are not far off; we have only to jump into a hansom; we should be back before the dinner-bell rings. Only—this fellow has a host of engagements."
"Ah!"
Lady Agatha had hardly sighed when Jardine woke up as if from a dream.
"Have I engagements?" he asked. "I do not remember any. Anyhow, I am a convalescent, and the privileges of convalescence are mine. I vote for that hansom, Brind."
After dinner they sat around the fire and talked. Although it was June, it had been a sunless day of arid east wind, and Lady Agatha, who always snatched at the least excuse for a fire because it was so beautiful, had ordered one to be lit. The three long windows were open beyond the red leather screen that made a cosy corner of the fireplace, and the scent of flowers came in from the balcony.
Paul Jardine talked as much as they desired him to talk. He started on his hobby about those West African peoples, and rode it with spirit and energy. His friend laughed at him.
"Why, Jardine," he said, "I can never again call you the lion that will not roar."
"Am I horribly loquacious?" The hero smiled, but was not more silent. He had great things to tell, and he told them well and modestly. Lady Agatha sat with her cheek shaded by a peacock-feather fan. There was a deep glow in her eyes. Glancing across at her from the opposite corner, Mary thought it must be the reflection of the firelight.
She came to Mary's room after the guests had departed, when Mary was preparing for bed, and sat down in the chair by the open window.
"What do you think of him, Mary?" she asked.