“What is it?”
“Long ago two guilty lovers deserted their respective mates and the brilliant world they had figured in, and fled there together.”
“And quarrelled and were generally wretched there for how many months?”
“For eight years.”
“The devil! Fidelity gone mad!”
“It is said that during those years the mistress never left the garden, except to plunge into the lake on moonlight nights and swim through the silver with her lover.”
Carey was silent. He did not take his eyes from the photograph, which seemed to fascinate him. When the servant came in with the whisky-and-soda he started.
“Not a place to be alone in,” he said.
He drank, and stared again at the photograph.
“There’s something about the place that holds one even in a photograph,” he added.