There was no sign of Dulcie in the garden or on the lawn. He walked slowly across the clipped grass, beyond the pool, and, turning to the right past a sun-dial, stepped into the long rose-arbour. At the further end of the blossoming tunnel he saw her seated on the low wall in the rear of the tea-house. Her head was turned toward the woods beyond.
When he was near her she heard him and looked around, was on the point of rising, but something in his expression held her motionless.
“Where have you been, Garry?”
He ignored the question, seated himself beside her on the wall, and drew both her hands into his. He saw the swift colour stain her face, the lovely, disconcerted eyes lower.
“Last night,” he said, “did you come back as you promised?”
“Yes.”
“And you found me gone.”
She nodded.
“What could you have thought of me, Dulcie?”
“I—my thoughts were—not very clear.”