Lys stood before me in the garden.
When we had kissed each other, we linked arms and moved up and down the
gravel walks, watching the moonbeams sparkle on the sand bar as the tide
ebbed and ebbed. The broad beds of white pinks about us were atremble
with hovering white moths; the October roses hung all abloom, perfuming
the salt wind.
"Sweetheart," I said, "where is Yvonne? Has she promised to spend
Christmas with us?"
"Yes, Dick; she drove me down from Plougat this afternoon. She sent her
love to you. I am not jealous. What did you shoot?"
"A hare and four partridges. They are in the gun room. I told Catherine
not to touch them until you had seen them."
Now I suppose I knew that Lys could not be particularly enthusiastic
over game or guns; but she pretended she was, and always scornfully
denied that it was for my sake and not for the pure love of sport. So
she dragged me off to inspect the rather meager game bag, and she paid
me pretty compliments, and gave a little cry of delight and pity as I
lifted the enormous hare out of the sack by his ears.
"He'll eat no more of our lettuce," I said attempting to justify the
assassination.
"Unhappy little bunny--and what a beauty! O Dick, you are a splendid
shot, are you not?"