“Don’t know much about ladies’ clothes; should have said you were always very well turned out.”
“It cost me something, though,” said Flora in a low voice. “Don’t let’s talk of horrid things. I’m so happy. I’m free. Free to do what I like. Free not to—” She stopped suddenly.
“Not to what?” asked Blunt quickly.
“I forget now. Nothing important.”
Blunt had a stick in his hand, and he thrust it into the pond, poking at something.
“What are you doing. Major Blunt?”
“There’s something bright down there. Wondered what it was—looks like a gold brooch. Now I’ve stirred up the mud and it’s gone.”
“Perhaps it’s a crown,” suggested Flora. “Like the one Mélisande saw in the water.”
“Mélisande,” said Blunt reflectively—“she’s in an opera, isn’t she?”
“Yes, you seem to know a lot about operas.”
“People take me sometimes,” said Blunt sadly. “Funny idea of pleasure—worse racket than the natives make with their tom-toms.”
Flora laughed.
“I remember Mélisande,” continued Blunt, “married an old chap old enough to be her father.”
He threw a small piece of flint into the goldfish pond. Then, with a change of manner, he turned to Flora.