She ran across to the summer-house, Jack following her.
"Here," she cried, "in the summer-house. And keep quite still."
For a moment a horrible suspicion crossed Jack's mind. "I say! You
will come back? You 're not going to leave me here to perish of thirst?"
"That would be a good joke!" she laughed.
"I 'll carve your name while you 're gone!"
"No, you won't!"
"Why not?"
"Because you don't know it!--_Voila_!"
And before he could stop her she had tripped into the house.
Jack sat for a moment in a sort of silent rapture.
Then all he said to himself was "By George!" three times repeated; and
if you don't know what that exclamation meant, I 'm sure I can't tell
you.
Marjolaine had left the "Adventures of Telemachus" on the seat in the
Gazebo. Under ordinary circumstances Jack would have avoided picking up
a book; but this was her book; it had been in her hands; her eyes had
looked at it; it was not so much a book as a part of the little goddess;
so he picked it up tenderly and tenderly opened it. There, on the
fly-page, was a name.--"Lucy Pryor"--Of course! Her name! Lucy
Pryor--just the sort of pretty, simple name she would have. Aha! but
now he'd astonish her! She should find he had carved her name, after
all! Out came his sailor's knife, and to work he went, and as he carved
he sang a little song to himself, the words of which were, "Lucy, Lucy,
Lucy Pryor." He was not a poet.
The Eyesore came slowly round the corner. Seeing the little lady was no
longer on the seat, he drew his line out of the water--I need hardly
record the fact that there was no fish on it. With a sigh he seated
himself on his box, with his back to the Walk; patiently he placed a new
worm on the empty hook, and in a moment he was immersed in his
contemplative occupation. There was utter silence in the Walk.
Then the upstairs window of Number Five was thrust open and Mr. Jerome
Brooke-Hoskyn, at his ease in his shirt-sleeves, and enjoying a
church-warden pipe, leant out. He was evidently conversing with his
wife, and was in his tenderest mood.
[Illustration: MR. JEROME BROOKE-HOSKYN, AT HIS EASE]
"What a pity, my dearest Selina, you are temporarily deprived of the use
of your limbs! The river is flowing by--What? Do I expect it to stop?
No, of course I don't. Why check my musings? I say, the river is
flowing by. Not a living thing is in sight except the Eyesore; and he
enhances the beauty of his surroundings by sheer contrast. My smoke
does not incommode you, my own?--You can bear it?--Dear soul! Am I the
man to deprive you of an innocent pleasure?--"
He might have gone on all the afternoon in this strain, but at this
moment Marjolaine came very cautiously out of her house carrying a tray
on which was a bottle of claret, a tumbler, and a cake. Mr.
Brooke-Hoskyn was immediately absorbed in this new and inexplicable
phenomenon. What could it mean? He watched Marjolaine half-way across
the lawn. Then in his softest and most caressing tones he exclaimed,
"Why, Miss Marjory--!" Marjolaine gave a little cry and very nearly let
all the things drop. She stood aghast.