"'Oh, devil take me for a blundering ass!" He stood considering her forlornly for a moment, and then shrugged his shoulders, with the brilliant and disarming smile. "The game's up, thanks to my inspired lunacy! But I'm going to trust you not to say that you've seen me. I know about the lacquer chest because I always kept my marbles there."
"Are you—are you Stephen Fane?"
At the awed whisper the man bowed low, all mocking grace, his hand on his heart—the sun burnishing his tawny head.
"Oh-h!" breathed Daphne. She bent to pick up the wicker basket, her small face white and hard.
"Wait!" said Stephen Fane. His face was white and hard too. "You are right to go—entirely, absolutely right—but I am going to beg you to stay. I don't know what you've heard about me—however vile it is, it's less than the truth—"
"I have heard nothing of you," said Daphne, holding her gold-wreathed head high, "but five years ago I was not allowed to come to Green Gardens for weeks because I mentioned your name. I was told that it was not a name to pass decent lips."
Something terrible leaped in those burned-out eyes—and died.
"I had not thought they would use their hate to lash a child," he said. "They were quite right—and you, too. Good night."
"Good night," replied Daphne clearly. She started down the path, but at its bend she turned to look back—because she was seventeen, and it was June, and she remembered his laughter. He was standing quite still by the golden straw beehive, but he had thrown one arm across his eyes, as though to shut out some intolerable sight. And then, with a soft little rush she was standing beside him.
"How—how do we get the cushions?" she demanded breathlessly.