young things vanished into the garden, where Fanny Garland was told to take tea out to them under one of the chestnut trees. Sorrell was redescending the stairs after carrying up the luggage when he saw Roland beckoning to him from the end of the passage.
"Stephen"
"Sir?"
"One moment; come to my room."
Roland was smiling.
"Guess who our new visitors are."
"Honeymooners."
"Well, yes,—but rather important honeymooners. They are here incognito. Guess."
"I seem to have seen the man's face."
"I expect you have. Ever heard of Ethel and Duck?"
"Not Ethel Frobisher and Duncan Scott? Why—that's the man of course."
"Just so. The wedding has been a world event. But you wouldn't expect a couple of cinema super-stars to be running away from publicity."
"I could understand it,—personally."
"That's the position, Stephen. Scott put it to me—straight up. 'We want to get away from the confounded reporters and their cameras. We're just fed up with it. We want to be our two selves for a week. See?'"
Sorrell nodded.
"Don't tell any of the others, Stephen. I am fixing them up in a little private suite. I have promised Scott that he shall have peace here."
Sorrell understood Mr. Roland's laughter, for it was kind laughter, even though these two immensely rich young people could have bought the unprofitable Pelican Hotel and thought no more of it than of buying a box of chocolates. Bedrooms No. 1 and 2 were turned into a little private suite. All meals were sent up to the two lovers, the World's Pet Lovers, for that was what they were.
Sorrell confessed to human curiosity. He was interested in these two young things who were so bored by the world's frenzied favours that they had fled away together into the green deeps of an English countryside. He watched them in the garden. They appeared to him quite ordinary young people, and very much in love with each other and that,—
