The situation was saved by the appearance from the garden of Mrs.
Boyce herself, a handsome, erect, elegantly dressed old lady in
the late sixties, pink and white like a Dresden figure and in her
usual condition of resplendent health. She held out her hand.
"I couldn't let you go without telling you that Leonard is back. I
don't want the whole town to know. If it did, I should see nothing
of him, his leave is so short. That's why I told Mary to say 'not
at home.' But an old friend like you--Would you like to see him?"
Marigold closed the bonnet and stood up with a grimace which
passed for a happy smile.
"I should, of course," said I, politely. "But I quite understand.
You have everything to say to each other. No. I won't stay"
--Marigold's smile faded into woodenness--"I only turned in idly to
see how you were getting on. But just tell me. How is Leonard?
Fit, I hope?"
"He's wonderful," she said.
I motioned Marigold to start the car.
"Give him my kind regards," said I. "No, indeed. He doesn't want
to see an old crock like me." The engine rattled. "I hope he's
pleased at finding his mother looking so bonny."
"It's only excitement at having Leonard," she explained earnestly.
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