“You are not angry? Why do you look so serious? Tell me you are not sorry that I came?” said a deep voice close to her ear, but before she had time to answer, footsteps approached, and Mrs Fanshawe’s voice was heard calling in raised accents—
“Erskine! are you there? Give me your arm, dear; I am so tired. It’s such a perfect night, that it seemed a shame to stay indoors. The Major has been admiring ‘The Flowery Way.’ It certainly looks its best to-night.” She turned towards Major Humphreys with her light, cynical laugh. “My son declares that it is profanation to allow ordinary, commonplace mortals to walk up those steps! He always escorts my visitors round by another way. He is ungallant enough to say that he has never yet seen a girl whom he would care to watch walk up those steps in the moonlight. She would have to be quite ideal in every respect to fit into the picture. We’ll go round by the lily garden, Erskine, and then I think Miss Gifford and I will be off to bed. You men will enjoy a smoke.”
For the next ten minutes Mrs Fanshawe kept tight hold of her son’s arm, and Claire talked assiduously to Major Humphreys. She knew now why Erskine had asked her to walk ahead up “The Flowery Way!”
Chapter Twenty One.
All in a garden fair.
The next afternoon a party of friends had been bidden for tennis. For the morning no plans had been made, but throughout its length Mrs Fanshawe fought a gallant fight against overwhelming odds, and was hopelessly beaten for her pains. It was her strong determination that her son should be prevented from holding another tête-à-tête with Claire Gifford. Erskine actively, and Claire passively, desired and intended to bring about just that very consummation, while Major Humphreys, shrewdly aware of the purpose for which he had been invited, aided and abetted their efforts by the development of a veritable frenzy of gardening enthusiasm. He questioned, he disputed, he meekly acknowledged his mistakes; he propounded schemes for fresh developments, the scenes of which lay invariably at the opposite end of the grounds from that in which the young people were ensconced.
Mrs Fanshawe struggled valiantly, but the Triple Entente won the day, and for a good two hours before lunch, Erskine and Claire remained happily lost to sight in the farthest recesses of the grounds. They had left behind the region of formal seats and benches, and sat on the grass at the foot of a great chestnut, whose dark green foliage made a haven of shade in the midst of the noonday glare. Claire wore her bargain frock, and felt thankful for the extravagant impulse of that January morn. Erskine was in flannels, cool and becoming as a man’s négligé invariably is; both had discarded hats, and sat bareheaded in the blessed shade, and Erskine asked questions, dozens of questions, a very viva voce examination, the subject being the life, history, thoughts, hopes, ambitions, and dreams of the girl by his side.
“You were an only child. So was I. Were you a lonely little kiddie?”