“Not very. And he’s red and fierce-looking, with a stubby, scrubby mustache,” she added, augmenting Gloria’s description.
Her companion stared. “Not what I should call a particularly enthusiastic portaiture.”
“Oh, but of course he’s awfully nice,” she made haste to amend. “Not really a bit fierce, you know, but very brave and—and” (eagerly casting about) “a lovely voice.”
“What kind?”
“Barytone.”
“And you sing together?” he asked gloomily.
“Oh, lots!”
“I suppose so.” He gathered some loose stones and began idly to drop them over the rock’s crest.
“There! You’ve given the alarm to the spy,” she accused. “See him wigwagging at you! Now he’ll go and report.”
“Darcy!”