There was a moment’s silence. They sat down on the stone seat by the goldfish

pond. It seemed as though neither of them knew quite what to say next.

 

“It—it’s such a lovely morning,” said Flora at last. “You know, I can’t help

feeling happy, in spite—in spite of everything. That’s awful, I suppose?”

 

“Quite natural,” said Blunt. “Never saw your uncle until two years ago, did you?

Can’t be expected to grieve very much. Much better to have no humbug about it.”

 

“There’s something awfully consoling about you,” said Flora. “You make things so

simple.”

 

“Things are simple as a rule,” said the big game hunter.

 

“Not always,” said Flora.

 

Her voice had lowered itself, and I saw Blunt turn and look at her, bringing his

eyes back from (apparently) the coast of Africa to do so.

 

He evidently put his own construction on her change of tone, for he said, after

a minute or two, in rather an abrupt manner:—

 

“I say, you know, you mustn’t worry. About that young chap, I mean.

 

Inspector’s an ass. Everybody knows—utterly absurd to think he could have done