'Do you understand, Mr. Nightingale?'—Wych Hazel resumed, turning to her other companion—'that is a mistake.'
'Can you prove it? But apropos, I am right in supposing that you are fond of music? That is true, isn't it?'
'Very true!'—But she was thinking.—'Mr. Rollo, how can you always say what you mean, without saying what you do not mean?' she asked suddenly.
'Choose your audience,' said Rollo.
'I like to say what I mean to anybody!'
'It is a great luxury. But the corresponding luxury of being understood, is not always at command. Have you been puzzling Mr. Nightingale?' he asked in an amused voice.
'Only presenting my ideas wrong end first, as usual. Is Miss
Fisher here to-night?—and do you like her, Mr. Rollo?'
'Miss Fisher?—Kitty?—I have not seen her since I came home from Europe. But there is Prim. I must go and take care of her.'
He disappeared. The walk and talk of the two others was prolonged, until faint sweet notes of wind instruments from afar called them to join the rest of the world.
There was quite a little company gathered at this point, a small clearing in the shrubbery around one side of which seats were placed. Here the music lovers (and some others) were ranged, in a tiny semi-circle, half in shadow, half in light, as the lamps and moonbeams served. The light came clear upon half the little spot of greensward; glittering on leaves and branches beyond, glanced on the tops of trees higher up. A lively chitter-chatter was going on, after the fashion of such companies, when Wych Hazel came up, but a moment after the first notes of the music struck their ears, and all was as hushed as the moonlight itself. Only the notes of the harmony floated in and out through the trees; nothing else moved.