“Can’t you?” said Cassandra lightly. “Oh, I can! I sinned gloriously in short frocks, with never a thought of consequences. My chum sister was my partner in wickedness, we planned all our rebellions together, but when it came to the bit, she missed half the fun. I could bury everything in the joy of the moment, and forget there was such a thing as to-morrow... She had no sooner done the deed, than she began to be visited by qualms. I didn’t object as much as I might have done, for if the sin was edible—and it generally was.—there was so much the more left for me. She used to sit and shiver, and say: ‘Cass, you’ll be ill! What will Mother say?’ while I ate up her share.”
“And were you ill?”
“I forget,” said Cassandra, and looked at him with a rebel’s eyes. “But I ate my cake!”
Before he had time to answer, suddenly, impetuously she had sprung to her feet, and darted round a corner of the rockery to shelter behind a clump of shrubs. Peignton followed, alert but mystified, but the explanation came swiftly enough. From the raised path which curved through the park to the entrance of the house came a familiar whirr, and the next moment there sped into sight a large grey car carrying two men on the box, and within the tonneau one large, elderly dame. From the distance it was not possible to distinguish her face, but Cassandra recognised her all the same, and groaned aloud.
“Mrs Freune... from Bagton. What shall I do?”
“They’ll look for you?”
“She’ll make them. They’ll ask the gardeners. They’ll say I’m here.”
“Let’s run away!”
She looked at him and her eyes danced, but the instincts of hospitality put up a fight. “It’s a long drive! Twelve miles. She’ll want tea.”
“Does she stay long?”