In a shrubbery walk, where a rising moon was just beginning to chequer the path with light and shade, he ran into Julian Horne, who was strolling tranquilly up and down, book in hand.
"Hullo, what are you doing here?" said the invaded one.
"Getting cool. And you?"
Julian showed his book—The Coming Revolution, a Bolshevist pamphlet, then enjoying great vogue in manufacturing England.
"What are you reading such rot for?" said Peter, wondering.
"It gives a piquancy to this kind of thing!" was Horne's smiling reply, as they reached an open space in the walk, and he waved his hand towards the charming scene before them, the house with its lights, on its rising ground above the lake, the dancing groups on the lawn, the illuminated rose-garden; and below, the lake, under its screen of wood, with boats on the smooth water, touched every now and then by the creeping fingers of the searchlight from the boathouse, so that one group after another of young men and maidens stood out in a white glare against the darkness of the trees.
"It will last our time," said Peter recklessly. "Have you seen
Buntingford?"
"A little while ago, he was sitting out with Lady Cynthia. But when he passed me just now, he told me he was going down to look after the lake and the boats—in case of accidents. There is a current at one end apparently, and a weir; and the keeper who understands all about it is in a Canada regiment on the Rhine."
"Do you think Buntingford's going to marry Lady Cynthia?" asked
Peter suddenly.
Horne laughed. "That's not my guess, at present," he said after a moment.