She turned and studied him. Helen, who had strolled a few yards
away, was knee-deep in the golden brown bracken, picking some
gorgeously coloured leaves from a solitary bramble bush. Lessingham
had thrown his cap onto the ground, and his wind-tossed hair and the
unusual colour in his cheeks were both, in their way, becoming. His
loose but well-fitting country clothes, his tie and soft collar, were
all well-chosen and suitable. She admired his high forehead and his
firm, rather proud mouth. His eyes as well as his tone were full of
seriousness.
"You know that you ought to be saying that to some Gretchen away
across that terrible North Sea," she laughed.
"There is no Gretchen who has ever made my heart shake as you do,"
he whispered.
She picked up her hat and sighed.
"Really," she said, "I think things are quite complicated enough as
they are. I am in a flutter all day long, as it is, about your
mission here and your real identity. I simply could not include a
flirtation amongst my excitements."
"I have never flirted," he assured her gravely.
"Wise man," she pronounced, rising to her feet. "Come, let us go
and help Helen pick leaves. She is scratching her fingers terribly,
and I'm sure you have a knife. A dear, economical creature, Helen,"
she added, as they strolled along. "I am perfectly certain that
those are destined to adorn my dining-table, and, with chrysanthemums
at sixpence each, you can't imagine how welcome they are.
Pages:
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100