Henrietta, rather impressed by the depths of her own thoughts, moved
through the garden. Where was Charles? She wanted to see him and get
their meeting over, but there was not a sign of him and, avoiding the
croquet players and that shady corner where elderly ladies were
clustered near the band, the same band which had played at the ball,
Henrietta found herself in the kitchen garden. She examined the
gooseberry bushes and strawberry beds with apparent interest,
unwilling to join the guests and still more unwilling to be found
alone in this deserted state. It was very hot. The open door of a
little shed showed her a dim and cool interior; she peeped in and
stepped back with an exclamation. Something had moved in there. It
might be a rat or one of John's ferocious terriers, but a voice said
quietly, 'It's only me.'
She stepped forward. 'What are you doing in there?'
'Getting cool,' Charles said. 'I thought nobody would find me. Won't
you come in? It's rather dirty in here, but it's cool, and you can't
hear the band. I've been sitting on the handle of the wheelbarrow, so
that's clean, anyhow. I'll wipe it with my handkerchief to make sure.'
'But where are you going to sit?'
'Oh, I don't know.'
'There's room on the other handle.'
Henrietta sat with her knees between the shafts, and he sat on the
other handle with his back to her.
'We can't stay here long,' she said.
'No,' Charles agreed.
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