That is all."
The hand slipped from Francis' shoulder. Francis, with a smile,
held out his own. They stood there for a moment with clasped
hands--a queer, detached moment, as it seemed to Francis, in a
life which during the last few months had been full of vivid
sensations. From outside came the lazy sounds of the drowsy
summer morning--the distant humming of a mowing machine, the
drone of a reaper in the field beyond, the twittering of birds in
the trees, even the soft lapping of the stream against the stone
steps. The man whose hand he was holding seemed to Francis to
have become somehow transformed. It was as though he had dropped
a mask and were showing a more human, a more kindly self.
Francis wondered no longer at the halting gallop of the horses in
the field.
"You'll be good to Margaret?" Sir Timothy begged. "She's had a
wretched time."
Francis smiled confidently.
"I'm going to make up for it, sir," he promised. "And this South
American trip," he continued, as they turned towards the French
windows, "you'll call that off?"
Sir Timothy hesitated.
"I am not quite sure."
When they reached the garden, Lady Cynthia was alone. She
scarcely glanced at Francis. Her eyes were anxiously fixed upon
his companion.
"Margaret has gone in to make the cocktails herself," she
explained.
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