“Topography, you mean,” contradicted Crofts, surprised out of his jaded condition into smothered laughter by the Irishman’s blunder. “Topography, not photography.”
“I said photography, and I’ll stick to it,” replied Cosgrove with never a smile. “And topography as well. Do you call them fit studies for a woman?”
“They, and others like them, are the very things that make you ache for her,” said Pendleton with what I considered remarkable penetration. “They form part of the wonder of her, the quality that makes it hard for you to realize just what a prize you’ve captured. Come man, frankly, what would you give to have her for your wife two days from now if she didn’t have intellect as well as a treasury of golden hair and emotions which permit a strange susceptibility to such as you?”
I looked curiously at Cosgrove, to see how he would take the challenge. He took it stolidly, with never a sign on his rufous countenance; only after a while his eyebrows lifted sharply, as if he considered the possibility of truth in his friend’s words.
For my part, I soon was too absorbed in the dart and dip of the tennis ball to notice much more of the talk. Pendleton kept trying to tell me more about Miss Lebetwood, how she loved climbing, how on earlier visits she had taken the unpromising lad Toby in hand and uncovered surprising intelligence in him. It all had something to do with photography—or was it topography?—no matter. She had even brought down some apparatus—or was it maps?—and given it to him. Cosgrove kept still now, while our host rambled on, evidently glad of any topic he could talk of without unpleasant associations.
Suddenly the game was over, and everyone concerned trooped toward the House. Pendleton was hailed by somebody and had to join the returning party, though I think he would have been glad to remain out of sight of his country home just then. I was well content to stay with Cosgrove, for the man rather fascinated me; his mind seemed to be full of admirable inconsistencies.
We strolled southward where Aidenn Water makes that monstrous sweep to the west beyond the towered gate, and further where the stream swings sharply eastward again under the very toes of the bounding hills. There stood the bridge, a crossing of one arch: ill-hewn, moss-grown moor stone with a two-foot parapet, quite immeasurably old and quite quaint, with an immemorial ash-tree overlooking it from this side. The water stole peacefully underneath. I expressed surprise that it would bear any considerable weight, and Cosgrove with an air of commenting on the irrelevant remarked that he did not suppose it was ever expected to bear any greater weight than Pendleton’s motor or a tradesman’s team and wagon.
“Look at it, I say, look at it. They build no bridges like that to-day.”
We remained several minutes there beside the water-crossing, which was indeed picturesque, then turned toward the half-hidden House in some haste, for the sky had gradually been overcast and now there was a premonition of showers in the nip of the wind.
We hastened through the main portal of the House, beneath the stone head of the cat, just in time to escape a flicker and dash of rain.