"Well, that's all right—that's as it should be. Now for my narrative. I waited by the turnpike. Valentine and baby were to meet me there. No sign of them. I waited a long time. Then I tied Bob to the gate, and started on discovery bent. You know it is a pretty lane beyond the turnpike, the hedges hid me. I walked along, whistling and shaking my whip. Presently I was assailed by the tuneful duet of two voices. I climbed the hedge and peeped over. I looked into a field. What did I see? Now, Lilias the wise, guess what I saw?"
"Valentine and our little Gerald," responded Lilias. "She was talking to him; she has a sweet voice, and surely there never was a dearer little pipe than wee Gerry's. They must have looked pretty sitting on the grass."
"They looked very pretty—but your picture is not quite correct. For instance, baby was sound asleep."
"Oh, then, she had him in her arms, and was cooing to him. A lovelier scene than ever, Augusta."
"A very lovely scene, Lilias; only, one woman's voice would not make a duet."
Something in Augusta's eyes caused Lilias to droop her own. She turned aside to pick a spray of briony.
"Tell me what you saw," she said abruptly.
"I saw Valentine and Adrian Carr. They were sitting close together, and baby was asleep on his breast, not on hers, and he was comforting her, for when I peeped over I saw him touch her hand, and then I saw her raise her handkerchief and wipe away some tears. Crocodile's tears, I call them. Now, Lilias, out of my way. I mean to vault over this gate."
"What for, dear?"
"To relieve my feelings. Now I'm better. Won't you have a try?"