“Perhaps.”
They looked in at the window and met the ferocious eyes of the dog.
“And if I never come back will he bay the moon for his old master?” said the Count with a whimsical, yet sad, smile. “I put him here. And will these trees, many of which I planted, whisper a regret? Absurd, isn’t it, Miss Enfilden? I never can feel that the growing things in my garden do not know me as I know them.”
“Someone will regret you if—”
“Will you? Will you really?”
“Yes.”
“I believe it.”
He looked at her. She could see, by the expression of his eyes, that he was on the point of saying something, but was held back by some fighting sensation, perhaps by some reserve.
“What is it?”
“May I speak frankly to you without offence?” he asked. “I am really rather old, you know.”