She went out into the ivy-walled garden, and walked up the central path, between the beds of wallflowers and forget-me-nots and the standard roses just bursting into leaf. What could she do? Once she had laughed scornfully at the idea of love playing any part in her life. She had not reckoned with her youth. And now she stared aghast at the vista of lonely and loveless years.
Presently Blaise Olifant came from his study and advanced to meet her.
He said: “Can you speak to me now?”
“Yes—now,” she answered.
“I’ve behaved like any blackguard. You must forgive me, if you can. The Italian cad who made me see red was not very much worse than myself.”
There was a smile in her dark eyes as she looked up at him.
“There’s all the difference in the world. I disliked the Italian very much.” She touched his sleeve. “You are forgiven, my dear friend. It’s all my fault. I oughtn’t to have come back.”
“You’re the most wonderful of women,” said he.
The most wonderful of women made a little wry movement of her lips.
“It’s all a might-be and a can’t-be,” she said in a low voice.