Marble statuary glistened in white repose, and groups of majestic palms and ferns and holly stood illumined in the soft light of frosted electric globes and quaint Oriental lanterns.
Out from the deep shadow of a wide-spreading oak, and remote from the range of illumination, an old, decrepit and poorly clad man emerged, peering cautiously about, as if afraid of discovery. As he approached near the house and came under the gleams of light, it could be seen that he was gray-haired and a cripple, for he hobbled slowly with the aid of a stout stick. He proceeded to a clump of ferns and close to a high-back, rustic seat, behind which he stood partially concealed.
Feeling satisfied that he had not been seen, and that he was alone, that part of the grounds being temporarily deserted, he muttered impatiently: “Where the devil does Rutley keep himself? I’ve been dodging about these grounds for an hour trying to locate him, and to get posted.”
The words had scarcely escaped his lips when down behind the seat he ducked.
Simultaneously, Virginia Thorpe and William Harris appeared, descending the piazza steps.
“Congratulations, Mr. Harris, on your reception. It is a brilliant affair, and the grounds are simply beautiful.”
“I am delighted at receiving congratulations from a lady whose taste is acknowledged without a peer.”
“Now, Mr. Harris, you know I object to flattery,” responded Virginia, in a deprecating tone of voice. “Why, I have lost my fan. How unfortunate! I fear I have dropped it in the ball-room.”
“I shall try to find it immediately. No, no; no trouble whatever.”
“Thanks, Mr. Harris. I shall await your return here.”