She laughed.
“Just what it should do. What, Mr Claverton? You get the dismals over a song? Won’t do at all.” And without giving him time to reply, she rattled off a lively little ditty, doing full justice to the spirit and archness of the composition.
Ethel and Laura were away, spending two or three days with the Naylors, and to-night Hicks had taken himself there, too; thus these two and the old people had the house to themselves. To one of the quartett that afternoon was to be marked with the traditional white stone. A deliciously long walk with Lilian, unhindered and unrestrained by the presence of any third person. She had talked freely about the old home, and her eyes had brightened, and her cheeks had glowed with the loveliest flush, while on that most congenial of topics. Yet a thorn beneath every rose. Never could she revert to the favourite subject without that indefinable moment of restraint coming in. Again this afternoon it had gone home to her companion, strengthening the resolve which he had already formed.
The door stood open. Attracted by the beauty of the night, Lilian went out on the verandah.
“Better have a shawl, my child; you’ll catch cold,” said Mrs Brathwaite.
“A shawl!” she echoed. “Dear Mrs Brathwaite, I should be roasted. It’s as warm almost as at midday.”
“Yes, it’s a regulation summer evening,” said Claverton, following her on to the stoep. “And a light one, too, considering that there’s no moon.”
“I do think you get such glorious starlight here,” continued Lilian. “An English starlight night is the feeblest of misty twinkles, in comparison. What’s that?” as a luminous spark floated by. “A firefly?”
“Yes. There are lots of them about. Look! there’s another.”
“What do they look like, close? Couldn’t we catch one?”