A few minutes after we reached the bungalow Mrs. Searle appeared.
She brought a letter for Herrick which had come by the afternoon mail.
"It had a special-delivery stamp on, so I thought it might be
important," she said. "Pete was busy, so I took the liberty of
bringin' it over myself. I was glad of the walk, anyway."
I had my own opinion of Pete's busyness, when it came to an errand up
the hill, and I tried to catch Mrs. Searle's eye, but her gaze was
discreetly lowered.
"It's awfully good of you," said Herrick. He slipped the envelope in
his pocket, with a glance at the writing. "Won't you rest a minute,
Mrs. Searle? I'm sure Miss Lessing would like you to."
Mary was getting tea at the moment, but Lessing seconded him
promptly. Mrs. Searle shook her head.
"I'll be gettin' back, sir, thanks just the same. There's things to
see to. It's done me good to get the walk."
"You needn't walk back, anyway," I put in. "I'd be glad for the mare
to be home, and Mr. Herrick and I can walk over, later. You can
drive yourself, Mrs. Searle, can't you?"
"Certainly, sir, if you'd rather."
She untied the mare and turned the buggy carefully around before
getting in. "Ask Pete to give her a good rub down," I called. "Mr.
Herrick and I will be back by supper-time."
As it happened, we stayed fairly late. The tea resolved itself into
a semi-supper, with the addition of chocolate cake, canned pineapple,
and sardines prepared by some special and deadly recipe of Lessing's
in a chafing-dish. It was a combination that induced a certain
languor afterwards in soul and body. Later, Lessing having
re-engaged Herrick in the game of chess that our return had
interrupted, Mary and I found ourselves once more left to each
other's company at the far end of the porch. She had attempted some
quite ridiculous excuse about dish-washing, but either the sense of
Herrick's near presence or the meal just finished lent me moral
courage to vanquish her objections on the spot.
"Either you invite people to your house," I said, "or you don't
invite them. If you do, it's your business to entertain them. I'm
not an exacting person, but if it comes to contesting my rights
against those of mere crockery, I warn you that I'm going to be
exceedingly disagreeable."
Our talk on the homeward drive had broken the aloofness of the past
week, and I was minded not to let her slip back into it at will. She
sat down on the wicker armchair opposite me, her hands folded on her
lap.
"Would you like to see the family photograph album?" she suggested.
"We none of us collect picture-postcards, so I'm afraid that's the
only interesting object I can offer you. Or I might take you round
the garden and show you the site for next year's rose bushes."
"I should be delighted!" I said ruthlessly.
She made a mouth at me.
"I don't think you are in a mood to appreciate the exquisite
sentiment of next year's rose bushes," she returned. "It calls for a
totally different range of sympathies from yours."