"We have both sworn off absinthe for the rest of our
lives, and we know Hedges can't be trusted to make one without."
"I'll go and help her," Francis declared.
Lady Cynthia passed her arm through Sir Timothy's.
"I want to know about South America," she begged. "The sight of
those trunks worries me."
Sir Timothy's casual reply was obviously a subterfuge. They
crossed the lawn and the rustic bridge, almost in silence,
passing underneath the pergola of roses to the sheltered garden
at the further end. Then Lady Cynthia paused.
"You are not going to South America," she pleaded, "alone?"
Sir Timothy took her hands.
"My dear," he said, "listen, please, to my confession. I am a
fraud. I am not a purveyor of new sensations for a decadent
troop of weary, fashionable people. I am a fraud sometimes even
to myself. I have had good luck in material things. I have had
bad luck in the precious, the sentimental side of life. It has
made something of an artificial character of me, on the surface
at any rate. I am really a simple, elderly man who loves fresh
air, clean, honest things, games, and a healthy life. I have no
ambitions except those connected with sport. I don't even want
to climb to the topmost niches in the world of finance. I think
you have looked at me through the wrong-coloured spectacles.
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