"What a misleading name! Wouldn't 'The Hell of Memory' be more appropriate—more true to life?"
"I suppose," answered Diana soberly, "that it might appear differently to different people."
"You mean that the garden of memory may have several aspects—like a house? I'm afraid mine faces north. Yours, I expect, is full of spring flowers"—smiling a little quizzically.
"With the addition of a few weeds," she answered.
"Weeds? Surely not? Who planted them there?" His keen, penetrating eyes were fixed on her face.
Diana was silent, her fingers trifling nervously with the salt in one of the little silver cruets, first piling it up into a tiny mound, and then flattening it down again and patterning its surface with criss-cross lines.
There was no one near. In the alcove Errington had chosen, the two were completely screened from the rest of the room by a carved oak pillar and velvet curtains.
He laid his hand over the restless fingers, holding them in a sure, firm clasp that brought back vividly to her mind the remembrance of that day when he had helped her up the steps of the quayside at Crailing.
"Diana"—his voice deepened a little—"am I responsible for any of the weeds in your garden?"
Her hand trembled a little under his. After a moment she threw back her head defiantly and met his glance.