“He’ll take it as encouragement. Yes, I know. I’ll do it.”
Joyce called him up on the telephone, and Wadsworth came over to the Folly that evening.
“Why, yes, I think so,” he said, when questioned by Beatrice. “Let me see; when I left here, I walked a couple of times round the Italian garden paths, hesitating as to whether I should come back for one last appeal, or accept your refusal as final. I decided on the latter course, and was planning to go away on a long trip, to—to make myself keep away from you.” He looked tenderly into the troubled face gazing into his own. “I don’t want to persist too hard, dear, but I am of a determined nature, and I can’t give you up. So, I’m going away, but I warn you I shall yet return and ask you once more—yes, once more, Beatrice.”
“That is in the future,” she returned, gravely, “but now, let us see if we can help poor Joyce.”
“Poor Courtenay, as well! Now, I think I did see him, as I came along the South lawn. I’m sure I saw some man on the bench out there, and it was much the outline of Courtenay. And then, yes, I remember now, just then the light went out, and I couldn’t see him clearly. Of course, I thought nothing of the light being put out. I assumed the people were going to bed, but it was that that decided me not to return to see you again that night. Had the lights staid on, I fancy, after all, I should have entered the house again.”
They were alone in the studio. It was but partially lighted, and Beatrice shuddered as she looked around the great apartment.
“Come out of here,” she said; “I hate the place, it seems to be haunted by Eric’s spirit. Come into the Reception Room.”
Wadsworth followed as she went through the hall, but detained her a moment.
“What has become of your portrait painted on the staircase?” he asked.
“It’s in the studio,” she replied. “It isn’t quite finished, you know.”