“Won’t you come and see the garden,” she suggested.
It was an inspiration. John followed her with alacrity.
They came out on to a wide terrace. A stone balustrade ran its full length, a balustrade covered with climbing roses,—crimson, pink, white, yellow, and a pale purple-lavender. A queer rose this last, reminding one of the print gowns worn by one’s grandmothers. Beyond the balustrade was a sunk lawn, and beyond that again the parkland, while further still was the shimmering blue of the distant sea.
“How you must love it!”
The words escaped almost involuntarily from John’s lips. The next moment he would have recalled them. To remind her of the beauty of what she was about to lose, must surely be to emphasize the sense of that loss.
“Love it!” She turned towards him with a little laugh. “It—it just belongs.”
John was silent. Rosamund leaned upon the balustrade, half-sitting, half-standing.
“You needn’t mind saying what is in your thoughts,” said she. And there was a little whimsical smile in her eyes. “Of course you can’t help thinking about the fact that we are going to lose it all, any more than I can help thinking about it. It makes freedom of speech just a trifle difficult, if all the time you are feeling it is a subject to be carefully avoided. Granny and I speak of it quite naturally now.”
“I’d like to tell you how sorry I am,” said John.
“Thank you,” she said simply.