Nan cast a reflective eye upon the table.
"You don't think it looks too much like a shrubbery where you have to hunt for the cakes, do you?" she suggested.
"Certainly I don't," replied Peter promptly. "If there is some slight confusion occasioned by that trail of smilax round the pink sugar-icing cake it merely adds to its attractiveness. The charm of mystery, you know!"
"I believe if Maryon were here he would sweep it all on to the floor in disgust!" observed Nan suddenly. "He'd say we'd forfeited simplicity."
"Maryon Rooke, the artist, you mean?"
The warm colour rushed into Nan's face, and she glanced at Peter with startled—almost frightened—eyes. She could not conceive why the sudden recollection of Rooke should have sprung into her mind at this particular moment. With difficulty her lips framed the monosyllable "Yes."
Peter bent forward. They were sitting together on the wide window-seat, the sound of the traffic from below coming murmuringly to their ears like some muted diapason.
"Nan"—Peter spoke very quietly—"Nan—was he the man?"
She nodded voicelessly. Peter made a quick gesture as though to lay his hand over hers, then checked it abruptly.
"My dear," he said, "do you still care?"