She had to close
the London house, too, so there was a great deal to do."
"I see. And so Green Gardens is deserted?"
"It is sold," said Daphne, with a small quaver in her voice, "just this
afternoon. I came over to say good-by to it, and to get some mint and
lavender from the garden."
"Sold?" repeated the man, and there was an agony of incredulity in the
stunned whisper. He flung out his arm against the sun-warmed bricks of
the high wall as though to hold off some invader. "No, no; they'd never
dare to sell it."
"I'm glad you mind so much," said Daphne softly. "It's strange that
nobody minds but us, isn't it? I cried at first--and then I thought that
it would be happier if it wasn't lonely and empty, poor dear--and then,
it was such a beautiful day, that I forgot to be unhappy."
The man bestowed a wretched smile on her. "You hardly conveyed the
impression of unrelieved gloom as you came around that corner," he
assured her.
"I--I haven't a very good memory for being unhappy," Daphne confessed
remorsefully, a lovely and guilty rose staining her to her brow at the
memory of that exultant chant.
He threw back his head with a sudden shout of laughter.
"These are glad tidings! I'd rather find a pagan than a Puritan at Green
Gardens any day. Let's both have a poor memory.
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