"You know you ought not to come out at night without a lantern," he told her. "It's just the time of year when snakes begin to lie about in the dust and are still half-torpid from the winter."
"Then why did you come out without a lantern?" she asked, picking up her skirts a little anxiously.
At first he did not answer. Then he said: "Perhaps I'd better not explain." He paused. "After all," he added, "I don't see why I shouldn't tell you. The truth is I just felt I must come and stand at your gate, and I forgot all about lanterns and snakes."
"Why couldn't you have come over, lantern and all, after dinner for a chat?"
She would not recognise his meaning, thrilled though she was by his homage.
"I knew you were alone. Would it have been wise?"
"Well, perhaps not," she agreed, "and it's also not wise for us to stay talking here in the dark with snakes all over the place; I must go in. Good-night, Mr. Kennard."
He held her hand. "You'll keep me some dances to-morrow night, won't you? I'm one of your hosts, remember. Promise you won't disappoint me?"
"Of course not," she promised him gently, withdrawing her hand. He hesitated. "I think I'll just see you as far as the steps of the veranda. I should feel more comfortable. I can go back by the gap in the boundary--where it's broken, you know."
She knew. He had often come over that way in the daytime.