“You were prejudiced, I imagine. People are. He plays to their prejudices—you know, the dark glasses, those foolish clothes.”

“I suppose,” Rowland said with a certain weight and a sideways glance, “that it was arrogance on my part…”

“Possibly. A little,” Lindsay said with a smile. “You can be arrogant occasionally, Rowland.”

“I know,” he replied with a certain amusement and possibly some gloom.

“You should let people surprise you.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, I do. I’ve always liked the unexpected. Things coming at you, out of left field…” Lindsay, catching his eye, suddenly remembered her role. She gave a small sigh and folded her hands together. “Even when”—she went on, aiming at a pensive tone of voice, dignified but bravely sad—“even when the surprises are painful. Yes, even then. After all, in life, there’re always lessons to be learned.”

There was a silence; a long silence. Lindsay did not dare to look at Rowland. She felt almost sure she had overdone that last remark. Unconvincing, she thought, and fatuous. She rose.

“I was just wondering…” Rowland, who looked vastly amused by something, also rose. “I gather Tom and his girlfriend aren’t going back to London with you tomorrow?”

“No. They’re going on to friends.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t be possible for you to give me a lift back, would it? I came down with Max, you see…”

“You won’t criticize my driving?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Fine, then. Very well.”

Two hours, Lindsay was thinking as she made this crisp reply. Three if she drove slowly, if the traffic was bad. Why had she never noticed how glorious Max’s garden was? It looked like Eden. She began to walk back toward the voices, and the fluttering pink and white draperies of Max’s rented marquee. Rowland appeared to be intent on escorting her this short distance. Lindsay began to pray for traffic jams, for a ten-mile tie-up, for a punctured tire, a broken fan belt. In the distance she could just glimpse Markov, half concealed behind a bush, much the worse for drink, making faces at her. She began to pray that Rowland would not notice this odd behavior, and this prayer seemed to be answered. Giving a violent gesture, Markov toppled over into the bush with a crashing of branches. Lindsay stole a glance at Rowland; but no—God was merciful—he was looking the other way.

As they reached the French doors that led into Max’s drawing room, the telephone began ringing. Rowland excused himself, went inside, and presumably took the call, for the ringing stopped and a long silence ensued.

Lindsay lifted her face to the sun contentedly.

A few minutes later, his features expressionless, Rowland emerged.

“Did they want Max?” Lindsay asked. “He’s still up by the marquee, I think.”

“No. The call was for me. I’ve been expecting it, I suppose.”

“Good news? Bad news?” Lindsay looked at him curiously. “Are you all right, Rowland?”

“I’m fine. Shall we join the others?”

He guided her around to the terrace. As they reached the steps, he sighed, then smiled and took her arm.