“Mr. Allport is so despondent. I think he must be in love,” said Beatrice playfully.
“Unfortunately, I am not—or at least I am not yet aware of it,” said Mr. Allport, bowing slightly to Vera.
She advanced and stood in the bay of the window, her skirt touching the young man’s knees. She was tall and graceful. With her hands clasped behind her back she stood looking up at the moon, now white upon the richly darkening sky.
“Don’t look at the moon, Miss MacNair, it’s all rind,” said Mr. Allport in melancholy mockery. “Somebody’s bitten all the meat out of our slice of moon, and left us nothing but peel.”
“It certainly does look like a piece of melon-shell—one portion,” replied Vera.
“Never mind, Miss MacNair,” he said. “Whoever got the slice found it raw, I think.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “But isn’t it a beautiful evening? I will just go and see if I can catch the primroses opening.”
“What! primroses?” he exclaimed.
“Evening primroses—there are some.”
“Are there?” he said in surprise. Vera smiled to herself.
“Yes, come and look,” she said.
The young man rose with alacrity.
Mr. Holiday came into the dining-room whilst they were down the garden.
“What, nobody in!” they heard him exclaim.
“There is Holiday,” murmured Mr. Allport resentfully.
