The Annam Jewel by Patricia Wentworth Page B

meant to kiss her now, but somehow he didn’t do it. He had not the slightest idea that it was Rose Ellen who had stopped him. She gave him both her hands and a lovely smile, and she said:
    â€œOh, Petah de—ah!” And quite suddenly Peter was as unable to kiss her as if they had never met before.
    They sat on the grass and talked, falling quickly and easily into the old intimacy; and, as usual, it was Peter who talked and Rose Ellen who listened. He was full of his plans and at a word they came pouring out.
    â€œYou’re not going back to the Argentine, are you, Peter?”
    Rose Ellen’s voice shook just a very little as she put the question. The Argentine was a long way off. After the war she didn’t feel as if she could bear Peter to go right away to the other side of the map.
    Peter shook his head.
    â€œNo, I’m not going back. I’m a bit fed up with Dagos. I want to be in England; and Uncle Matthew’s money makes it possible. It was frightfully decent of him to leave it to me, wasn’t it?”
    Rose Ellen nodded. Little warm waves of thankfulness were beating upon her. She felt so dreadfully glad that she couldn’t speak, so she nodded, and her delicate pink colour rose a little.
    â€œThere’s a friend of mine, a fellow called Tressilian—you’d like him awfully, he’s a most amusing chap—we’re going into partnership. We’re going to breed horses. He’s got family acres in Devonshire and no money; and I’ve got Uncle Matthew’s money and no acres. I think we ought to make quite a good thing of it. He’s down there now, and I’m seeing to things in town. There’s a good deal of business connected with Uncle Matthew’s estate that had to stand over till I got back.”
    â€œIt sounds lovely,” said Rose Ellen.
    They walked home slowly, Peter still discoursing.
    It was next day when they were in the orchard that Rose Ellen asked him about Sylvia Coverdale. They were sitting under the very tree where they had sat when Rose Ellen made her little plaited ring, and Peter told her that when he was twenty-five he was going to marry Sylvia and give her the Annam Jewel. From that day to this he had never mentioned Sylvia again. In a week Peter would be twenty-five. Rose Ellen could keep the question back no longer. The apple tree was full of pink-and-white blossom. Rose Ellen filled her hands with the fallen petals and made a little pile of them on the lap of her rose-coloured gown. She looked down at the pink and white, and she said:
    â€œDo you ever see Sylvia Coverdale, Peter?”
    â€œOh, she’s married,” said Peter carelessly. “Yes, I see her sometimes. She’s is a widow now. Her name’s Moreland, Lady Moreland.”
    â€œIs she as pretty as ever?” said Rose Ellen.
    She didn’t look at Peter.
    â€œOh, prettier, much prettier,” said Peter.
    Rose Ellen laughed.
    â€œOh, Peter!” she said. “How could she be?”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause she was so very lovely then. I didn’t think anyone could be prettier than that.”
    â€œI was fearfully keen on her when I was seventeen,” said Peter.
    â€œAnd not now?”
    This time Rose Ellen did look. She had to see Peter’s face, because she simply had to know what perhaps he would not tell her in words. She kept her soft voice steady.
    â€œOh, lord, no—not like that. She’s frightfully pretty and—and an awfully good sort, and we’re great friends.”
    â€œHave you seen much of her?”
    â€œWell, I always seemed to run across her if I was ever on leave. I’d like you to meet her. You’d like her immensely. She’s very sympathetic and feminine, you know—not a bit like most of the girls one comes across. You’d like her no end.”
    â€œShould I?” said Rose Ellen. Then her colour rose, and she said with a sudden smile. “Are