In this garden a year ago Phyllis had refused Langridge’s offer of marriage. (She had refused other men in this garden too.)
Langridge considered the garden unlucky, and meant to try his luck in a fresh place next time. The East Hill was the spot in his mind.
After luncheon Phyllis, looking very bewitching in her picnic garb, set forth with her unfortunate victim gaily enough.
“She isn’t fretting after Arbuthnot,” commented her father, as he watched her go. “It is to be hoped he is not fretting either.”
The sea was a glorious blue. The hot sun was tempered by a playful breeze.
Langridge felt buoyant.
“Do you know, Phyllis, I have done nothing but think of you the whole year,” he told her.
“I was sure you didn’t work much at the War Office,” she flung at him saucily.
He laughed, but he was not altogether pleased. He did not want to lose time in banter. He was very much in earnest.
“We will not talk of the War Office now, Phyllis,” he told her. “I have left the War Office alone for a while.”