“Well, my garden is made to blend with the house. There are hollyhocks and pansies, and love-in-the-mist, and all the old-fashioned flowers that people have begun to turn their noses up at. And flagged paths, and a big, old cedar, and a stream at the bottom of the field with irises growing beside it.”

“It sounds beautiful,” she said. “I’m sure there are primroses too, and violets.”

“Little wild ones, not the sort one grows in unsightly frames. There’s nothing rare in my garden; you might be disappointed. One of my neighbours has a garden full of large labels with Latin names on them much bigger than the poor little plant itself. He wins prizes at the Chelsea flower-show.”

The music stopped; Stephen held Elizabeth a moment longer in his arms, then let her go. They went back to their table, and all at once Elizabeth knew that she was enjoying herself.

Stephen went away from the dance with Cynthia and with Cynthia’s husband, Anthony, in their two-seater. Anthony drove, and Cynthia was sandwiched tightly between him and Stephen.

“Well, what was the point of it all?” she asked abruptly. “I saw nothing in her.”

“Probably you didn’t try,” Stephen answered.

“Still more probable is it that there’s nothing to see.”

Stephen was silent; he did not want Cynthia to know how fascinated by Elizabeth he had been; he was fond of Cynthia, she was his pal, but she had a way of being sarcastic when you were not in the mood for sarcasm.

“Moreover,” said Cynthia, “she’s the last girl in the world I should have expected you to fall for.”

“Good lord, Cynny, I’m not in love with her!”

“No, not at present. It’ll surprise me if I find there’s more to her than a pretty face.”

Anthony’s voice, puzzled and groping, spoke from the other side of Cynthia.

“What on earth are you two talking about?” he inquired.

“Not a ‘what’ at all: a ‘she.’ Didn’t you notice, Anthony?”

“No, but then I never do,” he said apologetically.

“’Matter of fact I hadn’t any time to notice anything this evening except my stud. The confounded laundry has gone and widened the what-you-may-call-it, and the damn thing keeps coming undone, Cynny.”

“I’ll speak to them about it,” she promised, becoming maternal. “What we were talking about was Stephen’s latest. Dark girl with eyes.”

“Oh, I know,” said Anthony. “Pretty kid; I danced with her.”

“Well, keep off the grass,” Cynthia warned him. “Stephen’s got his thumb on her.”

Stephen defended himself, laughing.

“It’s all rot, Anthony. I don’t mind admitting that I was rather attracted. She’s refreshing and unmodern. I’m so tired of the slangy, hail-fellow-well-met girls. They haven’t got any reserves.”

“Um!” said Cynthia profoundly. “Question is, which is the more satisfactory type to live with?”