“Oh, it brought me in something, I’m glad to say.”
Mayne leaned back against the yew hedge, stretching out his long legs contentedly. He tilted up his face towards the serene blue sky, then glanced round him, his look taking in the flowers, the dancing butterflies above them, the delicate shadows on the grass.
“What do you want money for in Arcadia?” he asked.
“To get out of it,” returned Robert, with a sort of impatient bitterness.
Mayne glanced sharply at him as he half turned away to light the cigarette he held.
“You are really going to town in the autumn? But I thought you were so keen on this?” He waved his hand comprehensively.
“Oh, my dear fellow!” exclaimed Kingslake, irritably. “It’s all right, but one can’t live on lilies and roses, you know.” He broke off abruptly. “Listen! Was that the bell?”
“I don’t think so,” returned Dick, composedly. “Why? Expecting any one?”
“Oh, no—no!” There was quite an elaborate unconcern in his tone. “That is, a friend of Cecily’s—a Miss Burton—is coming to lunch, I believe.”
Mayne had resumed his work. For the fraction of a second his deft fingers stopped in their movement. Robert was walking backwards and forwards across the little strip of turf in front of the seat. When he spoke again, it was abruptly.