Who on earth was A. G.? Trix searched the recesses of her mind. And then suddenly, welling up like a bubbling spring, came memory. Why, of course A. G. was the boy she used to play with, the boy—she began to remember things clearly now—who had tried to sail across the pond, and with whom she had gone to search for pheasants’ eggs. A dozen little details came back to her mind, even the sound of the boy’s voice, and his laugh, a curiously infectious laugh.
Oh, she remembered him distinctly, vividly. But, what—and there lay the puzzlement, the bewilderment—was the boy, now grown to manhood, doing with a wheelbarrow in the grounds of Chorley Old Hall, and, moreover, dressed as a gardener, working as a gardener, and speaking—well, at any rate speaking after the manner of a gardener? Perhaps to have said, speaking as though he were on a different social footing from Trix, would have better expressed Trix’s meaning. But she chose her own phraseology, and doubtless it conveyed to her exactly what she did mean. Anyhow, it was an amazing riddle, an insoluble riddle. Trix stared at the photograph, finding no answer to it.
Finding no answer she left the book open at the page, and returned to the sticking in of prints. But every now and then her eyes wandered to the big volume at the other end of the table, wonderment and query possessing her soul.
Maunder appeared just as Trix had finished her task. Helpful, business-like, she approached the table, a gleam spelling order and tidiness in her eye.
“Leave that album, please,” said Trix, seeing the helpful Maunder about to shut and bear away the book containing the boy’s photograph.
Maunder hesitated, sighed conspicuously, and left the book, occupying herself instead with putting away the stickphast, the scissors, the now not as clean blotting-paper, and somewhat resignedly picking up small shreds of paper which were scattered upon the table-cloth and carpet. In the midst of these occupations the dressing-gong sounded. Maunder pricked up her ears, actually almost, as well as figuratively.
Ten minutes elapsed. Then Mrs. Arbuthnot appeared.
“What, finished, dearest!” she exclaimed as she opened the door. “Splendid! How quick you’ve been. And I am sure the time flew on—not leaden feet, but just the opposite. It always does when one is pleasantly occupied. Developing photographs or a rubber of Bridge, it’s just the same, the hands of the clock spin round. And I’ve won six shillings, and it would have been more if it had not been for Lady Fortescue’s last declaration. Four hearts, my dearest, and the knave as her highest card. They doubled us, and of course we went down. I had only two small ones. I had shown her my own weakness by not supporting her declaration. Of course at my first lead I led her a heart, and it was won by the queen on my left. A heart was returned, and Lady Fortescue played the nine. It was covered by the ten which won the trick. She didn’t make a single trick in her own suit. It is quite impossible to understand Lady Fortescue’s declarations. And did you put in all the prints? They will have nearly filled the last pages. I must send for another album. Are these they?” She crossed to the open volume.
“No,” said Trix, “that’s an old volume. I was looking at it. Who’s the boy in the photograph, Aunt Lilla?”
Mrs. Arbuthnot bent towards the page.