“We oughtn’t to look so absurdly happy. It’s indecent.”
“But it does one good,” said he.
Triona entered with the tray, and administered whisky and soda to his guest.
“There! When you’ve drunk it you’ll be ready to come to the Magical Isles with us, where the Lady of Ladies awaits you in an enchanted valley, with hybiscus in her hair.”
The talk grew light, drifted inevitably into the details of their projected wanderings. The evening ended pleasantly. Olivia bade Olifant farewell, promising, as he would not go in search of her himself, to bring him back the perfect lady of the hybiscus crown. Triona accompanied him to the landing; and, while they stood awaiting the lift, Olifant said casually:
“I suppose you’ve got your passports?”
“Passports?” The young man knitted his brow in some surprise. “Why, of course. That’s to say, I’ve not bothered about them yet, but they’ll be all right. Why do you ask?”
“You’re Russian subjects. There may be difficulties. If there are, I know a man in the Foreign Office who may be of help.”
The lift rose and the gates clashed open, and the attendant came out.
“Thanks very much,” said Triona. “It’s awfully good of you.”