Clifford flatly refused to move unless Sweetheart would take him
out into our garden and show him the solitary goldfish which lurked
in the fountain under the almond trees. But Sweetheart, apparently
fascinated by the mysteries of packing, turned a deaf ear to Clifford's
blandishments and Rowden's discords.
"I imagined," said Clifford, somewhat hurt, "that you would delight in
taking upon yourself the duties of a hostess. I should be pleased to
believe that I am not an unwelcome guest."
"So should I," echoed Rowden; "I'd be pleased too."
"What a shame for you to bother, Jack!" she said. "Mr. Clifford shall
go and make some tea directly. Mr. Rowden, you may take a table out by
the fountain--and stay there."
Clifford, motioning Elliott to take the other end of the Japanese
table, backed with it through the hallway and out to the gravel walk,
expostulating.
"The sugar is there in that tin box by the model stand," she said, when
he reappeared, "and the extra spoons are lying in a long box on Jack's
big easel."
When Rowden, reluctantly relinquishing the zitherine, followed
Clifford, bearing the cups and alcohol lamp, I raised my head and
wiped the dust from my forehead. I believe I swore a little in French.
Sweetheart looked startled. She knew more French than I supposed she
did.
"What is it, Jack?"
"Mais--rien, ça m'embête--cette espèce de malle----"
"Then why won't you let me help you, Jack? I can at least put in my
gowns."
"But I must pack my colour box first, and the gun case, and the
box of reels, and the pastel case, and our shooting boots, and the
water-colour box, and the cartridge belt, and your golf shoes, and----"
"O dear!" said Sweetheart with a shudder.