Ives applauded, shouted encouragement to Cleo, and then turned his attention to Gilbert Frobisher who was telling Alice that he had finally seen the great bustard, on the wing over the marsh just yesterday, the creature’s body the size of a Smithfield ham. Hodgson had sought out the nest after seeing the bird take flight and had photographed a wonderful golden egg like something out of the Arabian Nights.
Mother Laswell and Mrs. Langley came out through the open door of the gallery now and down the several steps, carrying covered dishes toward three great tables set up on the broad lawn. Hasbro carried a tray bristling with bottles of French wine – Chateau Latour, which Gilbert and Tubby had brought from the marsh along with crates of Gilbert’s pale ale, two vast pheasant-and-mushroom pies, and a tremendous treacle and cream pudding. Arthur Doyle and Jack Owlesby, seeing the train of food and drink crossing the lawn, gave off their game of Irish skittles and hurried forward. Dorothy had just knocked another pin out of the circle, and so accused them of abandoning the game from fear of losing to a woman.
St. Ives regarded the food and drink with an openly gluttonous look and thought of Tubby Frobisher’s signifying jam pot. Abruptly he wondered what had become of Finn Conrad, who had been away this past hour and a half on a mysterious errand. Hot food wanted eating, after all, but he didn’t like the idea of sitting down to it without Finn in the company.
Cleo let out a sudden shriek, handed her roll of kite string to Bill Kraken, and set out at a run toward the wisteria alley, catching and passing her brother, who waved his boomerang as he ran. St. Ives heard Alice laugh, and he stood up, feeling her hand on his shoulder.
“Happy birthday, darling,” she said to him.
Across the lawn, coming in from the direction of Aylesford, Finn rode atop an immense Indian elephant draped in scarlet and gold cloth decorated with bangles. It came into St. Ives’s head that he was quite possibly dreaming, but Alice’s touch and her happy laughter were far too real to be a figment. The beast skirted the rose garden with an admirable delicacy and walked placidly toward them, looking around with what appeared to be satisfaction on its wrinkled face before raising its trunk so that Finn Conrad could hand it a length of sugar cane.
