I waited in patience in this little “garden of the good,” encompassed by its dark thick box hedges. The morning was bright, the dew glistened everywhere in the sunlight, and the flowers filled the air with their fragrance. It was a peaceful spot where Lolita loved to linger, and where we had often walked and talked in secret.
She came at last—the reckless, handsome woman who held my love’s life in her hands.
Her fair face was smiling as she came along in her neat short skirt and fresh morning blouse, and greeted me saying—
“Really, Mr Woodhouse, I hardly think it was wise of you to meet me here. One of the gardeners or some one may see us and gossip,” and she turned her eyes upon me with that look which had made many a man’s head reel.
“We are safer from observation here, Lady Stanchester, than in my room,” I answered in a rather hard tone, I fear. She glanced at me quickly, apparently in wonder that I was in no mood for trifling. She was, of course, unaware that I had overheard all that had passed between her and the man Richard Keene. Nevertheless she said—
“As I anticipated, he claimed acquaintanceship with me last night—stopped me in the Panelled Corridor and addressed me by my Christian name.”
“Well.”
“I flatly denied ever having met him before. It took him back completely. He wasn’t prepared for it,” she laughed.
“And you were able, I hope, to sustain the fiction until the end?” I asked, looking straight at her.
“Well,” she answered, rather uneasily, “I managed to so confound him that I don’t think he’ll carry out what was his intention. As a matter of fact, I fancy he’ll curtail his visit. George has taken him to shoot over at Islip.” She made no explanation of his urgent appeal to her to save Lolita, of his threats or of her own declaration that if they were to be enemies then she would bring upon him an overwhelming disaster. She was keeping the truth to herself, suspecting my love for Lolita.