Kit went. He had had a strenuous day, and feeling pleasurably tired, he followed the maid up the stairs of Roland's house with a quiet appreciation of its coloured stateliness. The Chinese carpet under his feet, the soft prints upon the gold brown walls, the play of the light upon oak and walnut and lacquer impressed upon him their soothing sensuousness. He heard a piano being played by a woman's hands, and it seemed right to him that such a house should be lived in by a woman.
Cherry rose to meet him. She was alone, and in her eyes there was a mischievous gaiety.
"Hope I'm not too early?"
"No. The others are in the garden. Tom has just bought an Italian well-head."
She moved towards the spacious west window with its central arch and white flanking pillars. The panes were full of the sunset and the dark branches of a budding plane tree. Kit moved with her, aware of the smile on her face, a glimmer as of sly dew in her eyes.
She stood looking down into the garden which was a creation of Roland's, he having rescued it from a bare, sour smuttiness, and converted it into a pleasant, stonepaved court set with statues and clipped trees in blue tubs and grey vases. Treillage painted a dark green screened the walls. In the centre of the court stood Roland's Italian well-head, and he and a girl were looking at it. She turned her head as she spoke to Roland, and Christopher saw her profile.
For a moment he stood looking at her while Cherry played with her finger-tips upon one of the window-panes.
"You wicked woman!"
"How wicked, my dear?"
The gong thundered, and the two up above went down to meet the two below in the hall with its eastern rugs and old English furniture.
"See what I have produced for you, Molly."
Her surprised eyes looked straight at Christopher. Cherry had planned a mutual ambuscade.
"Surely—old Kit-bag!"
He held out a hand, his eyes as steady as hers.
"My Lady of the Mallet."
