My appearance is scarcely that of a joyous
lover, is it?"
Wingrave eyed him more closely. Aynesworth had certainly fallen away
from the trim and carefully turned out young man of a few months back.
He was paler, too, and looked older.
"I do not understand this," Wingrave said.
"I do!" Aynesworth answered bitterly. "There is someone else?"
"Someone whom I do not know about?" Wingrave said, frowning heavily.
"Who is he, Aynesworth?"
Aynesworth shrugged his shoulders. He said nothing. Wingrave came a
step nearer to him.
"You may as well tell me." he said quietly, "for I shall postpone my
journey until I know the whole truth."
"It is not my secret," Aynesworth answered. "Ask her yourself!"
"Very well," Wingrave declared, "I will. I shall return to London
tonight."
"It is not necessary," Aynesworth remarked.
Wingrave started.
"You mean that she is here?" he exclaimed.
Aynesworth drew him towards the window.
"Come," he said, "you shall ask her now."
Wingrave hesitated for a moment. An odd nervousness seemed to have
taken possession of him.
"I do not understand this, Aynesworth," he said. "Why is she here?"
"Go and ask her your question," Aynesworth said. "Perhaps you will
understand then."
Wingrave went down the path which led to the walled garden and the
sea. The tall hollyhocks brushed against his knees; the air, as mild
as springtime, was fragrant with the perfume of late roses.
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