She was pleasantly unaffected with Don Caesar,
although she managed to draw Dona Anna into the conversation; she
was unconventional, Paul fancied, to all but himself. Once or
twice, when he had artfully drawn her towards the open French
window that led to the moonlit garden and shadowed veranda, she had
managed to link Milly's arm in her own, and he was confident that a
suggestion to stroll with him in the open air would be followed by
her invitation to Milly to accompany them. Disappointed and
mortified as he was, he found some solace in her manner, which he
still believed suggested the hope that she might be made accessible
to his persuasions. Persuasions to what? He did not know.
The last guest had departed; he lingered on the veranda with a
cigar, begging his host and hostess not to trouble themselves to
keep him company. Milly and Yerba had retired to the former's
boudoir, but, as they had not yet formally bade him good night,
there was a chance of their returning. He still stayed on in this
hope for half an hour, and then, accepting Yerba's continued
absence as a tacit refusal of his request, he turned abruptly away.
But as he glanced around the garden before reentering the house, he
was struck by a singular circumstance--a white patch, like a
forgotten shawl, which he had observed on the distant ceanothus
hedge, and which had at first thrilled him with expectation, had
certainly CHANGED ITS POSITION.
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