It sloped down towards Richmond Park in a series of stately terraces with box-hedge borders trimmed so evenly that not a twig or leaf offended against the canons of symmetry. They were groomed like a racehorse. Centred in a square of barbered lawn was a fountain where Neptune drove his chariot of sea-horses. The Apollo Belvedere, the Capitoline Venus, Minerva, and Flora had their niches against a greenhouse of which the roof formed the terrace above--a greenhouse where patrician exotics held formal court.

Olive was feeding a calm-eyed Borzoi from the tea-table when Larssen and his little boy arrived. The pose was that of a Gainsborough portrait--she had dressed the part as closely as modern dress would allow. Sir Francis was leaning back in an easy-chair with one leg crossed squarely over the other knee, and in spite of country tweeds and Homburg hat, he was somehow well within the picture. But Lars Larssen, with his broad frame and his masterful step, was markedly out of harmony with that atmosphere of leisured artificiality.

A lesser man would have been conscious of his incongruity--not so with Larssen. He forced his personality on his environment. He made the Italian garden seem out of place in his presence. A sensitive would almost have felt the resentment of the trimly correct hedges and shrubs and the cla.s.sic statues at being thrust out of the picture on Larssen's arrival.

For some time the conversation progressed on very ordinary tea-table lines. Olive made much of the little boy--petted him, sent in for special cakes to tempt him with, showered a host of questions on him about school and games and hobbies. Sir Francis exchanged views on weather, politics, and the coming cricket season with his guest. The latter subject mostly resolved itself into a monologue on the part of the baronet, since cricket held no more interest for Larssen than ninepins; but he listened with polite attention while Sir Francis expounded the chances of the Australian Team (he had been to Lord's that morning to watch them at preliminary practice), and his own pet theory of how the googly ought to be bowled.

Then, having offered libation on the altars of weather, politics, and cricket, the baronet felt himself at liberty to touch on business matters.

"Have you heard when Clifford will be back?" he asked.

"Let me see. To-day's the 26th. I expect him not later than May 3rd.

Probably sooner."

"Everything going smooth?"

"Yes; fine. I'm glad we delayed the issue until May. Canada's getting well in the public eye just now. When the leaves spread out on the park-trees, town-dwellers begin to remember that the country grows crops. They recollect that there's 40 million acres of cropland in Canada--250 million bushels of wheat to move. They awake to the notion that the wheat will need transport to Europe. Yes, early May is the time for our Hudson Bay issue--Clifford was right in suggesting the postponement."

Olive caught the new drift of conversation between her father and her guest, and turned to cut in.

"Olaf would like to see the aviary," she said to her father. "Especially the new owl. It's so amusing to look at in the daytime. Will you take him round and show him everything?"

The boy jumped up gleefully, and Sir Francis roused himself from his easy-chair to obey his daughter's order. He had grown accustomed to obeying--experience had shown him it was more comfortable in the long run to do as she wished.

"Bring some cake along, and we'll feed the birds," he said to the boy, and the two moved off together to the aviary, which lay sheltered under the south wall of the house.

When the two were out of earshot, Larssen turned smilingly to Olive, and his tone was that of one who finds himself at home again.

"It's good to be back," he said.

Olive did not smile welcome to him, as he expected. There was an unlooked-for constraint in her voice as she inquired: "Another cup?"

"Thanks."

She took the cup from him.

"I've missed you," he added.

"I've had a worrying time," began Olive as she poured out tea and cream for him.

"Clifford?"

"Ye-es."

Larssen read through the slight hesitancy of her answer. "That means the Verney girl, does it?"

"I've seen her."

"Where?"

"At Wiesbaden."

"What made you travel to there?"

"She wrote me a letter."

"Which roused your curiosity."

"Yes."

"Did you satisfy yourself?"

"I satisfied myself that so far there's nothing to take hold of between her and Clifford."

"If she managed to give you that impression, she must be clever as well as attractive."

"I know I'm right.... Though of course they're in love with one another.

Both admit it."

Olive was ill at ease--a most unusual frame of mind for her. Larssen guessed she had some confession to make, and prepared himself for an outwardly sympathetic att.i.tude.

"No doubt she's got the hooks into Clifford tight enough," he answered.

"It'll be merely a question of time. No cause for you to worry. Wait quietly. Have them watched."

"I intend to do nothing of the kind!" said Olive sharply.

Larssen at once adjusted himself to her mood. "Well, that's as you please. The affair is yours and not mine. I don't doubt you have good reasons."

Olive played nervously with a spoon. "I've decided to drop the matter."

"Which?"

"Divorce."

Larssen had the sudden feeling that during his absence in the States the reins had slipped from his hands. He would have to play very warily for their recovery.

"No doubt you're right," he answered tacitly, inviting explanation.

"I want my husband back."

"Very natural."

"I want you to get him back for me."

"That's a large order. I don't know the circ.u.mstances yet."

"There's nothing much to tell. I saw this Miss Verney and I saw Clifford, and I've changed my mind--that's all."

"What did she say to you."