“Think! I know it.”
“Yes, I believe that is true. Well, then, I promise not to tell him of your visit unless he asks me directly. Now come with me; I want to know all your plans, and what Mr. Hope said. I can perhaps help you with a suggestion here and there; for I certainly know what my father will do, and what he won’t do, better than any of you.”
Edna led the way down the garden path, stopping at last where some chairs were scattered under a wide-spreading tree.
“Sit down,” she said. “We can talk here entirely undisturbed.”
Marsten sat down with Edna Sartwell opposite him in the still seclusion of the remotest depths of that walled garden. He would not have exchanged his place for one in Paradise, and he thought his lucky stars were fighting for him. But it is fated that every man must pay for his pleasure sooner or later, and Marsten promptly discovered that fate required of him cash down. He had no credit in the bank of the gods.
“Now, although I have promised,” began Edna, “I am sure you are wrong in thinking my father would be displeased if he knew we talked over the strike together, and if I have said I will not tell him you were here, it is not because I fear he will be annoyed at that, but because I would have certainly to tell him of your Surbiton visit as well, and, as you say, he might not think you were justified in going to Mr. Hope, no matter what your intentions were. But with me it is quite different. He would just laugh at our discussing the situation, as he does over the conversations I have with Mr. Barnard Hope in this very garden.”
“Ah, Mr. Barnard Hope comes here, does he?”
“Yes, quite often, ever since the strike began. He takes the greatest possible interest in the condition of the workingman.”
“Does he? It is very much to his credit.”
“That’s what I say, but father just laughs at him. He thinks Mr. Hope is a good deal of a—a——”