She stood silent a moment.
“Where?” she finally asked, in little more than a whisper.
“What’s the matter with that old arbor of yours at the foot of the garden?” he suggested.
He still misunderstood her hesitation, for it was resolution and not timidity which was so completely whitening her face.
“Why couldn’t you meet me there, about nine o’clock to-night?”
“That would be too early,” she said, bewilderingly composed.
“Then say ten,” he persisted, marveling at his own unpremeditated deadly earnestness; and still again she stood silent. But she found the courage to lift her intent eyes and let them rest on his face. It seemed significant of tremendous capitulations. But when she spoke she spoke very quietly.
“I’ll be there.”
Conkling watched her retreat into the shadow and watched the faded door swing slowly shut between them. Then he turned and went down the steps. He went away this time without thinking of the pictures, and he went with no slightest sense of disappointment.