The Garden Party and Other Stories

Light shone in the windows of the bungalow.  Two square patches of gold fell upon the pinks and the peaked marigolds.  Florrie, the cat, came out on to the veranda, and sat on the top step, her white paws close together, her tail curled round.  She looked content, as though she had been waiting for this moment all day.

“Thank goodness, it’s getting late,” said Florrie.  “Thank goodness, the long day is over.”  Her greengage eyes opened.

Presently there sounded the rumble of the coach, the crack of Kelly’s whip.  It came near enough for one to hear the voices of the men from town, talking loudly together.  It stopped at the Burnells’ gate.

Stanley was half-way up the path before he saw Linda.  “Is that you, darling?”

“Yes, Stanley.”

He leapt across the flower-bed and seized her in his arms.  She was enfolded in that familiar, eager, strong embrace.

“Forgive me, darling, forgive me,” stammered Stanley, and he put his hand under her chin and lifted her face to him.

“Forgive you?” smiled Linda.  “But whatever for?”

“Good God!  You can’t have forgotten,” cried Stanley Burnell.  “I’ve thought of nothing else all day.  I’ve had the hell of a day.  I made up my mind to dash out and telegraph, and then I thought the wire mightn’t reach you before I did.  I’ve been in tortures, Linda.”

“But, Stanley,” said Linda, “what must I forgive you for?”

“Linda!”—­Stanley was very hurt—­“didn’t you realize—­you must have realized—­I went away without saying good-bye to you this morning?  I can’t imagine how I can have done such a thing.  My confounded temper, of course.  But—­well”—­and he sighed and took her in his arms again—­“I’ve suffered for it enough to-day.”

“What’s that you’ve got in your hand?” asked Linda.  “New gloves?  Let me see.”

“Oh, just a cheap pair of wash-leather ones,” said Stanley humbly.  “I noticed Bell was wearing some in the coach this morning, so, as I was passing the shop, I dashed in and got myself a pair.  What are you smiling at?  You don’t think it was wrong of me, do you?”

“On the con-trary, darling,” said Linda, “I think it was most sensible.”

She pulled one of the large, pale gloves on her own fingers and looked at her hand, turning it this way and that.  She was still smiling.

Stanley wanted to say, “I was thinking of you the whole time I bought them.”  It was true, but for some reason he couldn’t say it.  “Let’s go in,” said he.