June’s first thought was to go away, but instead she crossed to the long window opening on the little court. It was from there that the scent of the azaleas came, and, standing with their backs to her, their faces buried in the golden-pink blossoms, stood her lover and Irene.

Silent but unashamed, with flaming cheeks and angry eyes, the girl watched.

“Come on Sunday by yourself⁠—We can go over the house together.”

June saw Irene look up at him through her screen of blossoms. It was not the look of a coquette, but⁠—far worse to the watching girl⁠—of a woman fearful lest that look should say too much.

“I’ve promised to go for a drive with Uncle.⁠ ⁠…”

“The big one! Make him bring you; it’s only ten miles⁠—the very thing for his horses.”

“Poor old Uncle Swithin!”