The Limit Part 21

Daphne and Cyril sat in the garden together. The conditions seemed ideal. It was a lovely afternoon; the sun was hot, but a gay irresponsible little west wind stirred the trees; bees hummed industriously, b.u.t.terflies darted casually about among the few flowers, and even the reticent doves cooed from time to time, condescendingly.

Peeping through the blind Mrs. Foster thought the two young people made a perfect picture, and was reminded of the Golden Age. Indeed, they had very much the charming, almost improbable air of the figures in a Summer Number of an ill.u.s.trated paper. Perhaps the conditions were too perfect: the lovers had, of course, nothing to sit on but a rustic seat--Mrs.

Foster would have thought it a crime to have anything else in a garden, and rustic seats are, no doubt, picturesque, but they are very uncomfortable; they seem to consist of nothing but points and k.n.o.bs, gnarls and corners.

When Daphne was alone with Cyril like this she felt contented and peaceful at first, and then she began to wonder why she wasn't happier still--why she didn't feel ecstatic. She was proud of Cyril; he looked very handsome in flannels, his regular features, smooth fair hair, small head and small feet all added to his resemblance to the hero in the holiday number.

Cyril said--

"Dear little girl!" and took her hand.

She laughed and answered--

"Dear old boy!"

Then he said--

"By Jove! you do look ripping, Daphne."

She smiled.

"Jolly being here like this, isn't it?" said Cyril.

"Isn't it?" she answered.

"Jolly day, too."

"Yes."

"Wasn't it lucky I was able to get away?"

"Rather."

"It was a fearful rush."

"It must have been."

"Jove, it is hot!"

There was a pause.

"Darling!"

"Dear boy!"

"May I smoke a cigarette, dear?"

"Yes, do."

He lit a cigarette, and then put his arm round her waist.

"Don't, Cyril."

"Why not?" he asked, removing it.

"Oh, I don't know. Henry or some one might see."

"What's Henry?"

"A sort of gardener boy--the boy whose sort of sister makes kind of blouses in the village."

"Oh, does he matter?"

Cyril was wondering if he could ask for a drink.

When they were left entirely alone, on purpose to be free, he always felt rather shy and awkward, and intensely thirsty.

Daphne began to think about what time it was, and about her train back--subjects that never occurred to her when she was alone with Mrs.

Foster.

"I'm afraid I shall soon have to be going," she said.

"Oh, I say! What, the moment I've arrived?"

He tried not to feel a little relieved. He wondered why he hadn't more to say to her. He had been desperate to get consent to their engagement, and was always extremely anxious and counting the minutes till they met, and when they were together, alone after much elaborate scheming, he felt a little embarra.s.sed, and, like his fiancee, was surprised he wasn't happier.

"I say, Daphne!"

"Yes, dear."

"You do look sweet."

"Do you really think so?"

"Simply ripping! I say!"

"Yes."

"Won't it be jolly when we're married?"

"Yes; lovely."

"It will be all the time just like this, you see--only nicer ... I say!

Isn't it hot?"

They sat holding hands, he looking at her admiringly, she feeling mildly pleased that such a dear, handsome boy should be so fond of her. In the minds of both was another sensation, which they did not recognise, or, at all events, would not admit to themselves. They both, especially Cyril, counted the minutes to these _tete-a-tetes_, and immediately afterwards looked back on them with regret, feeling they had missed something. They wrote to each other frequent, short, but intensely affectionate letters about the happiness these interviews had given them. Yet, while they actually lasted, both Cyril and Daphne, had they only known it, were really rather bored. The next day, or the same evening, Cyril would write to her:--

"My own Darling,--How jolly it was having you a little to myself to-day! And to think that you really care for me!" and so on.

And she would enjoy writing back:--