“Struan,” said Miss Percival comfortably, “are you there?”
“I'm here,” she was answered.
Thereupon she came easily forward and stood near him. She was in white from top to toe; he could see the clean outline of her head and neck, denned by the hooding scarf. He had not as yet taken off his hat, but now, as she stood there silent, he slowly removed it. Still there was nothing said. Miss Percival was very deliberate.
Presently she spoke. “You didn't tell me this afternoon that you'd had a bother with Mr. Menzies. Why didn't you tell me?”
“Why should I tell you?” The words seemed wrung from him. “Why should you care?”
“Of course I care,” she said. “You know that I care. Why didn't you tell me? ... But I know why you didn't.”
“You do not.” He denied her hotly.
“Oh, but I do. Because you were ashamed.”
“It was not. I'm not ashamed. He's an old fool. He thinks he can teach me my business. Melons! Plants! Why, I'm one of them. What can he teach me?”
“He's a very good gardener,” Miss Percival began, but the rest was drowned.