"I think his brains will compare favorably with yours; he is nothing to me—"
Brookhouse suddenly shifts his position.
"Don't you see the arrow?" calls a voice behind me, and so near that I know Miss Harris is coming to assist my search.
I catch up the arrow and turn to meet her.
No rustle of the leaves has betrayed my presence; the sound of our voices, and their nearness, is drowned by the general hilarity.
We return to our archery, and the two behind the screen finish their strange interview. How, I am unable to guess from their faces, when, after a time, they are once more among us, Brookhouse as unruffled as ever, Miss Manvers flushed, nervous, and feverishly gay.
Throughout the remainder of the fête, the face of my hostess is continually before me; not as her guests see it, fair, smiling, and serene, but pallid, passionate, vengeful, as I saw it from behind the rose thicket. And I am haunted by the thought that somewhere, sometime, I have seen just such a face; just such dusky, gleaming, angry eyes; just such a scornful, quivering mouth; just such drawn and desperate features.
Now and then I find time to chuckle over the words, uncomplimentary in intent, but quite satisfactory to me—"a city sprig with more money than brains."
So this is the ultimatum of Mr. Brookhouse? Some day, perhaps, he may cherish another opinion, at least so far as the money is concerned.