They were breakfasting at the western end of the terrace, with an awning over their heads, and a couple of footmen travelling to and from the house in attendance upon them, and keeping respectfully out of earshot between whiles. The table was heaped with roses, and the waxen chalices of a great magnolia on the lower level showed above the marble balustrade, and shed an almost overpowering perfume on the warm air.
“Why should a ghost come now?” she asked, harping upon her morbid fancies. “There has never been a hint of a ghost in all the years that father and mother have lived here. Why should one come now, unless——”
“Unless what, love?”
“Unless one of the Strangways died last night—at the very moment when we heard the footfall—died in some distant land, perhaps, and with his last dying thought revisited the place of his birth. One has heard of such things.”
“One has heard of a great many strange things. The human imagination is very inventive.”
“Ah, you are a sceptic, I know. I don’t think I actually believe in ghosts—but I am afraid of being forced to believe in them. Oh, Godfrey, if it were meant for a warning,” she cried, with sudden terror in the large dark eyes.
“What kind of warning?”
“A presage of misfortune—sickness—death. I have read so many stories of such warnings.”
“My dearest love, you have read too much rubbish in that line. Your mind is full of morbid fancies. If the morning were not too warm, I should say put on your habit and let us go for a long ride. I am afraid this sauntering life of ours is too depressing for you.”
“Depressing—to be with you all day! Oh, Godfrey, you must be tired of me if you can suggest such a thing.”