But whom could she be laughing with?
It was not the way you would laugh with a servant.
It had a curious intimacy.
It may seem strange that Carruthers read all this into a peal of laughter, but it must be remembered that Carruthers was very subtle.
His stories were remarkable for such touches.
When they met presently on the terrace and he was shaking a cocktail he sought to gratify his curiosity.
'What were you laughing your head off over just now?
Has anyone been here?'
'No.' She looked at him with genuine surprise.
'I thought one of your Italian officers had come to pass the time of day.'
'No.'
Of course the passage of years had had its effect on Betty.
She was beautiful, but her beauty was mature.
She had always had assurance, but now she had repose; her serenity was a feature, like her blue eyes and her candid brow, that was part of her beauty.
She seemed to be at peace with all the world; it rested you to be with her as it rested you to lie among the olives within sight of the wine-coloured sea.
Though she was as gay and witty as ever, the seriousness which once he had been alone to know was now patent.
No one could accuse her any longer of being scatter-brained; it was impossible not to perceive the fineness of her character.
It had even nobility.
That was not a trait it was usual to find in the modern woman and Carruthers said to himself that she was a throw back; she reminded him of the great ladies of the eighteenth century.
She had always had a feeling for literature, the poems she wrote as a girl were graceful and melodious, and he was more interested than surprised when she told him that she had undertaken a solid historical work.
She was getting materials together for an account of the Knights of St John in Rhodes.
It was a story of romantic incidents.
She took Carruthers to the city and showed him the noble battlements and together they wandered through austere and stately buildings.
They strolled up the silent Street of the Knights with the lovely stone facades and the great coats of arms that recalled a dead chivalry.
She had a surprise for him there.
She had bought one of the old houses and with affectionate care had restored it to its old state.
When you entered the little courtyard, with its carved stone stairway, you were taken back into the middle ages.
It had a tiny walled garden in which a fig-tree grew and roses.
It was small and secret and silent.
The old knights had been in contact with the East long enough to have acquired Oriental ideas of privacy.
'When I'm tired of the villa I come here for two or three days and picnic.
It's a relief sometimes not to be surrounded by people.'
'But you're not alone here?'
'Practically.'
There was a little parlour austerely furnished.
'What is this?' said Carruthers pointing with a smile to a copy of the Sporting Times that lay on a table.
'Oh, that's Albert's.
I suppose he left it here when he came to meet you.
He has the Sporting Times and the News of the World sent him every week.
That is how he keeps abreast of the great world.'
She smiled tolerantly.
Next to the parlour was a bedroom with nothing much in it but a large bed.
'The house belonged to an Englishman. That's partly why I bought it.
He was a Sir Giles Quern, and one of my ancestors married a Mary Quern who was a cousin of his.
They were Cornish people.'
Finding that she could not get on with her history without such a knowledge of Latin as would enable her to read the medieval documents with ease, Betty had set about learning the classical language.
She troubled to acquire only the elements of grammar and then started, with a translation by her side, to read the authors that interested her.
It is a very good method of learning a language and I have often wondered that it is not used in schools.
It saves all the endless turning over of dictionaries and the fumbling search for meaning.
After nine months Betty could read Latin as fluently as most of us can read French.