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He had meant to be there before, but in the front garden he had come upon Linda walking up and down the grass, stopping to pick off a dead pink or give a top-heavy carnation something to lean against, or to take a deep breath of something, and then walking on again, with her little air of remoteness. Over her white frock she wore a yellow, pink-fringed shawl from the Chinaman’s shop.
“Hallo, Jonathan!” called Linda. And Jonathan whipped off his shabby panama, pressed it against his breast, dropped on one knee, and kissed Linda’s hand.
“Greeting, my Fair One! Greeting, my Celestial Peach Blossom!” boomed the bass voice gently. “Where are the other noble dames?”
“Beryl’s out playing bridge and mother’s giving the boy his bath. . . . Have you come to borrow something?”
The Trouts were for ever running out of things and sending across to the Burnells’ at the last moment.
But Jonathan only answered, “A little love, a little kindness;” and he walked by his sister-in-law’s side.
Linda dropped into Beryl’s hammock under the manuka-tree, and Jonathan stretched himself on the grass beside her, pulled a long stalk
