And now the war was over. It was May again, and glorious May with the
world all colour and song, the garden a wealth of blossom, and the nights
clear and fragrant under moon or stars. And here was Philip again--much
more like the old Philip than he had been for years--looking at her with
those enchanting blue eyes of his, and asking her to do something for
him. No wonder Cynthia's pulses were stirred. The night before, she had
come home depressed--very conscious that she had had no particular
success with him at dinner, or afterwards. This unexpected _tete-a-tete_,
with its sudden touch of intimacy, made up for it all.
What could she do but assure him--trying hard not to be too
forthcoming--that she would be delighted to help him, if she could? What
was wrong?
"Nothing but my own idiocy," he said, smiling. "I find myself guardian to
an extremely headstrong young woman, and I don't know how to manage her.
I want your advice."
Cynthia lay back in her chair, and prepared to give him all her mind. But
her eyes showed a certain mockery.
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