Page 359 - tender-is-the-night

they were complete themselves. There was some element of
loneliness involved—so easy to be loved—so hard to love.
As he sat on the veranda with young Francisco, a ghost
of the past swam into his ken. A tall, singularly swaying
male detached himself from the shrubbery and approached
Dick and Francisco with feeble resolution. For a moment
he formed such an apologetic part of the vibrant landscape
that Dick scarcely remarked him—then Dick was on his
feet, shaking hands with an abstracted air, thinking, ‘My
God, I’ve stirred up a nest!’ and trying to collect the man’s
name.
‘This is Doctor Diver, isn’t it?’
‘Well, well—Mr. Dumphry, isn’t it?’
‘Royal Dumphry. I had the pleasure of having dinner one
night in that lovely garden of yours.’
‘Of course.’ Trying to dampen Mr. Dumphry’s enthu-
siasm, Dick went into impersonal chronology. ‘It was in
nineteen—twenty-four—or twenty-five—‘
He had remained standing, but Royal Dumphry, shy as
he had seemed at first, was no laggard with his pick and
spade; he spoke to Francisco in a flip, intimate manner, but
the latter, ashamed of him, joined Dick in trying to freeze
him away.
‘Doctor Diver—one thing I want to say before you go.
I’ve never forgotten that evening in your garden—how nice
you and your wife were. To me it’s one of the finest memo-
ries in my life, one of the happiest ones. I’ve always thought
of it as the most civilized gathering of people that I have
ever known.’

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