In his abstraction, he heard Mrs. Peyton allude to
the beauty of the night, and propose that after coffee and chocolate
the ladies should put on their wraps and go with her to the old garden.
Clarence raised his eyes; she was not looking at him, but there was
a slight consciousness in her face that was not there before, and
the faintest color in her cheek, still lingering, no doubt, from the
excitement of conversation.
It was a cool, tranquil, dewless night when they at last straggled out,
mere black and white patches in the colorless moonlight. The brilliancy
of the flower-hued landscape was subdued under its passive, pale
austerity; even the gray and gold of the second terrace seemed dulled
and confused. At any other time Clarence might have lingered over this
strange effect, but his eyes followed only a tall figure, in a long
striped burnous, that moved gracefully beside the soutaned priest. As he
approached, it turned towards him.
"Ah! here you are. I just told Father Esteban that you talked of leaving
to-morrow, and that he would have to excuse me a few moments while you
showed me what you had done to the old garden."
She moved beside him, and, with a hesitation that was not unlike a more
youthful timidity, slipped her hand through his arm. It was for the
first time, and, without thinking, he pressed it impulsively to his
side. I have already intimated that Clarence's reserve was at times
qualified by singular directness.
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