“He must play out these doubled lilies,” said Mrs. Rust.
“It must be nearly twelve,” said Mr. Wise. “The cocks have been crowing for an hour.”
The Island cock proclaims the night rather than the day. Not even a cock can feel much enthusiasm for such a tyrant as the Trinity Island sun.
“I can’t go now,” said the gardener.
But next morning at breakfast he said, “I daren’t go now.” He had hardly slept at all, and looked white. The light of the Seeker had gone out of his eyes, there had been no wish in him for a wild walk in the early sun. He was not even posing. He had been pathetically late for breakfast, and Mrs. Rust and the lady novelist had disappeared to read the English Review and the Lady’s Pictorial respectively on the front verandah.
“Why daren’t you?” asked Courtesy.
“Oh, Courtesy—she’s beaten me. She’s left me without hope.”
Courtesy took several mouthfuls of porridge before she replied, “You’re young yet, gardener. And she isn’t so extra unique, after all. If you like, I’ll go round and ask for an explanation of the dog.”
“You don’t know the way,” said the gardener tragically.
It was lucky that Mr. Wise at that moment arrived in his buggy to invite Courtesy and Mrs. Rust (if she wasn’t too tired) for a drive. The buggy was a single one, and held two only, so there was a transparency about his motives which did him credit. Courtesy never even passed on the invitation to Mrs. Rust, and the owner of the vehicle failed to repeat it.