And he was young, sunbrowned, grave, beautiful.
The car backed and turned. There was a grating as the clutch was slipped in, and then the engine dropped to a steady purr. The wrought-iron gates started out in the glare, the red tail-lights diminished. I was dimly aware that Madge said something to me, but I remained motionless where I stood. I came to myself to find myself alone.
Sunbrowned, grave, beautiful, young!
And he called himself Arnaud!
I have told you of that list of names with which his diary began. Arnaud was not among them. But Arnold was. He had simply Gallicised it, and as Arnaud he was seeking me.
Then I felt my sleeve timidly touched. His voice came from behind me, a voice with a charming, uncertain timbre.
"George—I say, George—who was that?"
III
I will make a shameful confession. My heart had sunk like lead. I had wanted a holiday from him. That very morning I had thought I had secured it, had blithely planned my new and cheerful work.