"The trees in my garden are now in full bloom," he told her. "My bungalow fronts the river and we shall be in perfect seclusion. Think of the sunlight flung back from those flower-flames to become entangled in your hair! A scattered splendour of strewn petals at your feet, shadowed to scarlet where the light falls low on the grass.
"I shall call the picture 'Imprisoned Flames,' and shall give it to you."
"I shall give it to Cyprian," said Ferlie, smiling.
"To your brother? Would he appreciate it? Could he? He doesn't"—with a laugh—"appreciate me."
Ferlie felt that to be true.
Cyprian and she had seemed, almost by tacit consent, to avoid discussion of Digby Maur. But then, they seldom discussed anybody, happy egoists that they were.
In this case Cyprian had definite reasons for his dislike though they were not reasons he would be likely to confide in Ferlie. His respect for Womanhood in the abstract was stringently old-fashioned for days when the modern débutante has been known to discuss the works of Havelock Ellis with her partner, between dances, at the latest fashionable night-club. Sometimes, in odd corners of the bar, men raised their eyebrows and shrugged at the mention of Digby's name. He was not boycotted by any means, but he was not exploited before their women-folk.
"What can you expect? This mania for 'enlightening' education which develops the vices of both Races and the—well, one can't but believe in the truth of the saying. Left to itself, the bazaar element triumphs, and why not?—so that it flourishes in the bazaar. Oil and water will never mix. And even under this broad-minded administration one must draw the line somewhere."
Cyprian heard, marked, learnt and inwardly digested.
Came a day when he overheard.