The Duchessa di Donatello was sitting at dinner. Silver and roses gleamed on the white damask of the table-cloth. The French windows stood wide open, letting in the soft air of the warm June evening. Through the windows she could see the lawn surrounded by elms, limes, and walnut trees. The sun was slanting low behind them, throwing long blue shadows on the grass. A thrush sang in one of the elm trees, a brown songster carolling his vespers from a topmost branch.
At the other end of the table sat a kindly-faced middle-aged woman, in a grey dress and a lace fichu fastened with a large cameo brooch. She was Miss Esther Tibbutt, the Duchessa’s present companion, and one-time governess. Now and then she looked across the table towards the Duchessa, with a little hint of anxiety in her eyes, but her conversation was as brisk and unflagging as usual.
“I hope you had a nice drive this afternoon, my dear. And did Clinker go well?” Clinker was the Dartmoor pony.
The Duchessa roused herself. She was evidently preoccupied about something, thought Miss Tibbutt.
“Oh, yes, very well. And he has quite got over objecting to the little stream by Crossways.”
Miss Tibbutt nodded approvingly.
“I thought he would in time. So you went right over the Crossways. Which way did you come home?”
“Over Stagmoor,” said the Duchessa briefly.
“Stagmoor,” echoed Miss Tibbutt. “My dear, that is such a lonely road. I should have been quite anxious had I known. Supposing you had an accident it might be hours before any one found you. I suppose you didn’t see a soul?”
“Oh, just one man,” returned the Duchessa carelessly.