“Yes—and add that you can’t take Shan’t to the seaside this year.”
“Oh, do—take me to the seaside,” moaned Shan’t.
“You tell Uncle Marcus that Aunt Elsie won’t take you to the seaside, Shan’t, poor little thing!”
“Don’t say won’t,” said Aunt Elsie.
“What shall I say, then?” asked Shan’t.
“Say won’t,” said Diana.
“She won’t—she won’t—she wo-n’t,” murmured Shan’t.
“It is delightful to have you back,” said Aunt Elsie, as arm in arm she and Diana went round the garden, leaving Shan’t to write to Uncle Marcus—a rash thing to do—“with re-al ink,” sighed Shan’t.
It was rather curious, but that very morning Mr. Pease, remembering what Mrs. Sloane had said, determined to go and sit in Miss Carston’s garden. He quite saw it was the politic thing to do. Then Miss Carston couldn’t think what she would be almost bound to think—
Mr. Watkins had thought over that brambly, overgrown path to which Mrs. Sloane had referred. At last he remembered the source from which the idea had flowed. It was from a Persian poem. Any idea Mr. Watkins must always run to ground. If any new idea were to burst upon Bestways it must come from him. He could bear a woman to be anything rather than original. He would have talked more if he could have afforded to. But his thoughts were to him as valuable as jewels, he must keep them until he could be paid for them. He couldn’t afford to be amusing like ordinary people. But still the thought that had inspired Mrs. Sloane had been a wise one—Of course, if he only went to Miss Carston’s garden when Miss Diana was there, Miss Carston would think—that he only went—what would she think? He would therefore go at once. So by three o’clock on the day Diana came home two men had passed through the garden gate, and the first person they each came upon, of course, was Diana.