Sarah picked up a shawl and followed her from the room without further comment.
The garden was full of slanting amber light and mellow tranquillity. Across the hedge, they could hear the click of mallets on croquet balls, and the intermittent calling of tennis scores from the neighbouring club.
Sarah and Mary walked down the gravel path, between an autumn riot of herbaceous borders and laden apple-trees. For a little while both were silent, and Mary hoped, against all knowledge of Sarah's character, that no further reference would be made to the conversation in the drawing-room. She bent over a tall cluster of Japanese anemones.
"How fine these are this year," she remarked, "I never knew such a lot of blossoms. They're so useful for vases too."
Sarah disregarded her attempted evasion.
"Mary," she announced abruptly, "John will have to give up farming."
Mary began to defend herself with unnecessary vigour.
"Oh, what nonsense you are all talking! John's all right. He is really. Why, think how young he is! You're always saying that your father didn't retire and was killed by an accident, when he was ninety-two. John's better. Really he is."
"You know he isn't, Mary."
"Yes, he is. He is really. The doctor said that if he was kept quiet there's no reason why——"