The organist looked inquiring. Rosamund laughed.
“How could you know? It’s only that I’ve been visiting a delicious old house, with a walled garden, to-day. It’s to let.”
“Oh, Mrs. Duncan Browning’s!” said Mr. Dickinson. “I—I’m sure I hope you’re going to take it.”
“I may!” said Rosamund. “Good-by, and thank you again for your splendid music. It’s done me good.”
“My dear!” exclaimed Mr. Dickinson, about a minute later, bursting—rather than going—into his wife’s small drawing-room, “I’ve just met the most delightful woman, a goddess to look at, and as charming as a siren brought up to be a saint.”
“More epigrams, Henry!” murmured Mrs. Dickinson.
“She’s staying with Canon Wilton. She’s a thorough musician such as one seldom comes across. There’s a chance—I hope it materializes—of her taking—”
“Your tea is nearly cold, Henry.”
“Her name is Mrs. Dion Leith. If she really does come here we must be sure to—”
“Scones, Henry?”