Mr. Tremain stopped spell-bound; and for a moment's space, in the hush that fell between them, each could hear the quick-drawn breath of the other, while the tinkling drops from Narcissus's vase became a Niagara in sound and volume. Then the spell was broken, as both, with involuntary impulse, spoke the other's name.
"Patricia!"
"Philip!"
The woman was the first to recover her composure; with a nervous laugh, that rang a little untrue, and in a slightly strained voice, she broke the embarrassment of the moment.
"So you, too, have caught the fever of unrest, Mr. Tremain, and become moon-struck under the influence of Luna's fool's month. For myself, I have always asserted that the blood of the wandering tribes flows in my veins, the night-time and the dark hours have always been my favourite times for——"
"A rendezvous," struck in Philip, sharply. "I have not forgotten any of your pet peculiarities, you see. Perhaps I intrude, however; the hour and scene demand a Romeo for your Juliet, and I can scarcely hope to fill the part to your liking."
She started as though he had struck her, but made answer calmly enough:
"You are too modest, Mr. Tremain, by far; it is a new development in your character, pardon me if it strikes me as somewhat ludicrous." And she laughed lightly and coldly, though with a ring of bitterness below the mocking notes.
But Philip was not angered by her words or her laughter; he scarcely heard the latter, so eagerly were his eyes devouring each feature and line of the once dearly worshipped face and form.
Surely the cheeks were a trifle more wan and hollow than in the old days, despite the delicate rouge tinting that lay upon them; and the eyes were deeper set, the shadows beneath them darker, their expression more weary and unsatisfied than when last he had looked into their violet depths; and had not the perfect modelling of her figure grown somewhat thinner and more shrunken?