Before, it seemed to be near the
summer-house; now it was, undoubtedly, farther away. Could they,
or SHE alone, have slipped from the house and be awaiting him
there? With a muttered exclamation at his stupidity he stepped
hastily from the veranda and walked towards it. But he had
scarcely proceeded a dozen yards before it disappeared. He reached
the summer-house--it was empty; he followed the line of hedge--no
one was there. It could not have been her, or she would have
waited, unless he were the victim of a practical joke. He turned
impatiently back to the house, reentered the drawing-room by the
French window, and was crossing the half-lit apartment, when he
heard a slight rustle in the shadow of the window. He looked
around quickly, and saw that it was Yerba, in a white, loose gown,
for which she had already exchanged her black evening dress,
leaning back composedly on the sofa, her hands clasped behind her
shapely head.
"I am waiting for Milly," she said, with a faint smile on her lips.
He fancied, in the moonlight that streamed upon her, that her
beautiful face was pale. "She has gone to the other wing to see
one of the servants who is ill. We thought you were on the veranda
smoking and I should have company, until I saw you start off, and
rush up and down the hedge like mad.
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