“Fairy Lady, we’re going to have a picnic tea!”
Coppertop’s excited voice, shrilling across the garden as he came racing over the grass, put an abrupt end to a scene that was threatening to develop along the familiar tempestuous lines dictated by Antoine’s temperament.
The child’s advent was somewhat differently received—by Magda with unmixed relief, by Antoine with a baulked gesture of annoyance. However, he recovered himself almost immediately, and when, a moment later, June reappeared, laden with the paraphernalia for tea, he rushed forward with his usual charming manners to assist her.
Presently Gillian joined them, exclaiming with surprise as she perceived who was the visitor.
“Why, this is like a bit of London appearing in our very midst,” she declared, shaking hands with Davilof. “Where have you hailed from? I heard the car but never suspected you were the arrival.”
“I’m on holiday,” he replied. “And it struck me”—his hazel eyes smiled straight into hers—“that Devonshire might be a very delightful place in which to spend my holiday.”
Magda looked up suddenly from stirring her tea.
“I think you’ve made a mistake, Davilof,” she said curtly. “You’re not likely to enjoy a holiday in Devonshire.”
June, innocently unaware of any double entente in Magda’s speech, glanced across at her in astonishment.
“Oh, but why not, Miss Vallincourt? Devon is a lovely county; most people like it so much. But perhaps you don’t care for the country, Mr.—Mr. Davilof?” She stumbled a little over the foreign name.