The mountains
were misty blue outlines, with little clusters of lights shining
through from little clusters of homes. In the garden the plants stood
quite still, straight and unstirred by the smallest ruffle of air.
Through the glass doors the dining-room, with its candle-lit table and
brilliant flowers--nasturtiums and marigolds that night--glowed like
some magic cave of colour, and the three men smoking round it looked
strangely animated figures seen from the silence, the huge cool calm of
outside.
Mrs. Fisher had gone to the drawing-room and the fire. Scrap and
Lotty, their faces upturned to the sky, said very little and in
whispers. Rose said nothing. Her face too was upturned. She was
looking at the umbrella pine, which had been smitten into something
glorious, silhouetted against stars. Every now and then Scrap's eyes
lingered on Rose; so did Lotty's. For Rose was lovely. Anywhere at
that moment, among all the well-known beauties, she would have been
lovely. Nobody could have put her in the shade, blown out her light
that evening; she was too evidently shining.
Lotty bent close to Scrap's ear, and whispered. "Love," she
whispered.
Scrap nodded. "Yes," she said, under her breath.
She was obliged to admit it. You only had to look at Rose to
know that here was Love.
Pages:
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323