'Oh, absolutely,' said James.
'Then go to her, my boy. Later on you may have something to tell me. You will find me in the strawberry beds.'
It was very cool and fragrant on the porch. Overhead, little breezes played and laughed among the roses. Somewhere in the distance sheep bells tinkled, and in the shrubbery a thrush was singing its evensong.
Seated in her chair behind a wicker table laden with tea things, Rose Maynard watched James as he shambled up the path.
'Tea's ready,' she called gaily. 'Where is Uncle Henry?' A look of pity and distress flitted for a moment over her flower-like face. 'Oh, I—I forgot,' she whispered.
'He is in the strawberry beds,' said James in a low voice.
She nodded unhappily.
'Of course, of course. Oh, why is life like this?' James heard her whisper.
He sat down. He looked at the girl. She was leaning back with closed eyes, and he thought he had never seen such a little squirt in his life. The idea of passing his remaining days in her society revolted him. He was stoutly opposed to the idea of marrying anyone; but if, as happens to the best of us, he ever were compelled to perform the wedding glide, he had always hoped it would be with some lady golf champion who would help him with his putting, and thus, by bringing his handicap down a notch or two, enable him to save something from the wreck, so to speak. But to link his lot with a girl who read his aunt's books and liked them; a girl who could tolerate the presence of the dog Toto; a girl who clasped her hands in pretty, childish joy when she saw a nasturtium in bloom—it was too much. Nevertheless, he took her hand and began to speak.
'Miss Maynard—Rose—'