Warner discovered him there in the garden, seated once more on the stone trough, the grey cat dozing on his knees.
"Hello, old chap!" he said cheerfully. "Did you sleep?"
Halkett gave him a pleasant, absent-minded glance:
"Not very well, thanks."
"Nor I. Those damn nightingales kept me awake. Has your man arrived?"
"Not yet. I don't quite understand why."
Warner sauntered up and caressed the cat.
"Well, Ariadne, how goes it with you?" he inquired, gently rubbing her dainty ears, an attention enthusiastically appreciated, judging by the increased purring.
"Ariadne, eh?" inquired Halkett.
"Yes—her lover forsook her—although she doesn't seem to mind as much as the original lady did. No doubt she knows there's a Bacchus somewhere on his way to console her."