"Up there, amongst the elm trees, George," he said, "can you see a gleam
of white? That is the Hall, just to the left of the rookery."
Duncombe nodded.
"Yes," he said, "I can see it."
"Guy and she walked down so often after dinner," he said quietly. "I
have stood here and watched them. Sometimes she came alone. What a long
time ago that seems!"
Duncombe's grip upon his arm tightened.
"Andrew," he said, "I can't go!"
There was a short silence. Andrew stood quite still. All around them was
the soft weeping of dripping shrubs. An odorous whiff from the walled
rose-garden floated down the air.
"I'm sorry, George! It's a lot to ask you, I know."
"It isn't that!"
Andrew turned his head toward his friend. The tone puzzled him.
"I don't understand."
"No wonder, old fellow! I don't understand myself."
There was another short silence. Andrew stood with his almost sightless
eyes turned upon his friend, and Duncombe was looking up through the elm
trees to the Hall. He was trying to fancy her as she must have appeared
to this man who dwelt alone, walking down the meadow in the evening.
"No," he repeated softly, "I don't understand myself.
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