JETHRO was hoeing peas in the burning June sun. His white linen hat flapped over his calm, shrewd eyes. Pamela, loitering along the grass paths, marveled intolerantly at his choice of an occupation. Why should a man of substance, a man of birth, a man with acres and with laborers, hoe peas? She paced the paths thoughtfully, looking at her neat, broad border of new roses, taking up a fluttering label now and then to read the half-obliterated name. They were all the very latest and choicest roses, and had been planted in the spring by the nurseryman at Liddleshorn, to whom she had given a large order.
Her heart told her that Edred was close behind, and she turned, her eyes seeking his humbly, pleading for tender recognition. He did not trouble to look at her, but merely plucked one of her beautiful pink Verdier roses without permission, and stuck it in his coat, with a scornful laugh at its huge size.
Jethro, across his little heaps of flagging weeds and clods of yellow earth, watched the two gloomily. He was tired of Pamela’s elegant brother; he was suspicious, although he could not have explained why. His welcome to the shipwrecked stranger had been warm—it had even extended to a free drawing on his check-book; but he did not want his kinsman’s-hospitality to be construed into a life invitation. He remembered a funny story he had once heard about an engaging Irishman who had come on a month’s visit to a country house and stayed forty-five years. Edred had lamed his best horse; he had considerably reduced the cask of old whisky; he dipped too deeply into the tobacco-jar. He might stay until the wedding, and when that was over he must take himself off—to the West Coast of Africa, to another wreck, if he chose. The busy man, hoeing peas not because it was necessary but as a positive outlet for his energy, was heartily sick of the idle one, who strolled languidly along the rose border, the smoke from his cigar making a lean, blue string.
The wicket-gate creaked. Pamela looked up sharply. Heels clattered on the raised brick path, and a blithe voice called out, “Where are you all?”
“It’s Nancy.”
Edred moved forward so abruptly that he broke the long ash of his cigar, which he had been carefully preserving. Pamela followed. A tall, slim figure stood for a moment in the frame of the shining holly arch at the entrance of the garden. The sun caught Nancy’s masses of brick-red hair and enveloped her pretty face in flame. She called out to Jethro:
“Mother wants you to tell me how much you think she ought to get a load for her hay. Write it down, please, or I am sure to forget.”
She met Pamela at the beginning of the grass path. They kissed. Edred watched the tame little salute cynically. Then he took Nancy’s hand in the cycling glove with the perforated palm—like a thin crumpet—and watched her white lids fall. She was such a child that she never tried to hide her feelings.
Pamela dragged off a great branch of damask rose and tore her fingers.
“You should always cut roses,” Nancy said reprovingly, taking up a label. “Francesca Kruger—that’s flesh, tinged with saffron, isn’t it?”