"Trust Rhoda!"
Mary Rochefort laughed. "I always do," she said, "with reservations."
She turned to Burnaby. "Where are you just back from?" she asked. "I
understand you are always just back from some place, or on the verge of
going."
"Usually on the verge," answered Burnaby. He looked at her deliberately,
a smile in his dark eyes; then he looked at Pollen.
"Where were you--the War?"
"Yes--by way of Roumania in the end."
"The War!" Mary Rochefort's lips became petulant. One noticed for the
first time the possibility of considerable petulance back of the shining
self-control. "How sick of it I grew--all of us living over there! I'd
like to sleep for a thousand years in a field filled with daffodils."
"They've plenty scattered about this room," observed Pollen. "Why don't
you start now?"
The fresh-colored man servant announced dinner. "Shall we go down?"
said Mrs. Ennis.
They left the little drawing-room, with its jonquils and warm shadows,
and went along a short hall, and then down three steps and across a
landing to the dining-room beyond. It, like the drawing-room, was small,
white-paneled to the ceiling, with a few rich prints of Constable
landscapes on the walls, and velvet-dark sideboards and tables that
caught the light of the candles.
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