"
Paul felt that he was losing his self-possession, and becoming
nervous in her presence. "I thought it was YOU," he stammered.
"Me! Out in the garden at this hour, alone, and in the broad
moonlight? What are you thinking of, Mr. Hathaway? Do you know
anything of convent rules, or is that your idea of your ward's
education?"
He fancied that, though she smiled faintly, her voice was as
tremulous as his own.
"I want to speak with you," he said, with awkward directness. "I
even thought of asking you to stroll with me in the garden."
"Why not talk here?" she returned, changing her position, pointing
to the other end of the sofa, and drawing the whole overflow of her
skirt to one side. "It is not so very late, and Milly will return
in a few moments."
Her face was in shadow now, but there was a glow-worm light in her
beautiful eyes that seemed faintly to illuminate her whole face.
He sank down on the sofa at her side, no longer the brilliant and
ambitious politician, but, it seemed to him, as hopelessly a
dreaming, inexperienced boy as when he had given her the name that
now was all he could think of, and the only word that rose to his
feverish lips.
"Yerba!"
"I like to hear you say it," she said quickly, as if to gloss over
his first omission of her formal prefix, and leaning a little
forward, with her eyes on his.
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