"You never minded them before. You used to laugh."
"But this time," said Ailsa Paige, "it is not the least bit funny.
We scarcely exchanged----"
She checked herself, flushing with annoyance. Camilla, leaning on
the garden fence, had suddenly buried her face in both arms. In
feminine plumpness, when young, there is usually something left of
the schoolgirl giggler.
The pretty girl below remained disdainfully indifferent. She dug,
she clipped, she explored, inhaling, with little thrills, the faint
mounting odour of forest loam and sappy stems.
"I really must go back to New York and start my own garden," she
said, not noticing Camilla's mischief. "London Terrace will be
green in another week."
"How long do you stay with the Craigs, Ailsa?"
"Until the workmen finish painting my house and installing the new
plumbing. Colonel Arran is good enough to look after it."
Camilla, her light head always ringing with gossip, watched Ailsa
curiously.
"It's odd," she observed, "that Colonel Arran and the Craigs never
exchange civilities."
"Mrs. Craig doesn't like him," said Ailsa simply.
"You do, don't you?"
"Naturally. He was my guardian."
"My uncle likes him. To me he has a hard face."
"He has a sad face," said Ailsa Paige.