Vera did not answer. Holiday came to the open window, attracted by the fragrance.
“Ho! that’s where you are!” he cried in his nasal tenor, which annoyed Vera’s trained ear. She wished she had not been wearing a white dress to betray herself.
“What have you got?” he asked.
“Nothing in particular,” replied Mr. Allport.
Mr. Holiday sniggered.
“Oh, well, if it’s nothing particular and private——” said Mr. Holiday, and with that he leaped over the window-sill and went to join them.
“Curst fool !” muttered Mr. Allport. “I beg your pardon,” he added swiftly to Vera.
“Have you ever noticed, Mr. Holiday,” asked Vera, as if very friendly, “how awfully tantalizing these flowers are? They won’t open while you’re looking.”
“No,” sniggered he, “I don’t blame ’em. Why should they give themselves away any more than you do? You won’t open while you’re watched.” He nudged Allport facetiously with his elbow.
After supper, which was late and badly served, the young men were in poor spirits. Mr. MacWhirter retired to read. Mr. Holiday sat picking his teeth; Mr. Allport begged Vera to play the piano.
“Oh, the piano is not my instrument; mine was the violin, but I do not play now,” she replied.
“But you will begin again,” pleaded Mr. Allport.
“No, never!” she said decisively. Allport looked at her closely. The family tragedy had something to
