“ You may have to wait.”
“ I’ll wait.”
She brought her playing to an end by—as school boys say—“stashing it up.”
“ I can’t play to-night,” she said, standing up and meeting my eyes. “I wanted to give you a parting voluntary.”
“ Was that Wagner, Beatrice?” asked Lady Osprey looking up from her cards. “It sounded very confused.”
I took my leave. I had a curious twinge of conscience as I parted from Lady Osprey. Either a first intimation of middle-age or my inexperience in romantic affairs was to blame, but I felt a very distinct objection to the prospect of invading this good lady’s premises from the garden door. I motored up to the pavilion, found Cothope reading in bed, told him for the first time of West Africa, spent an hour with him in settling all the outstanding details of Lo
