The swing moved gently to and fro; the wind came fresh and free and fluttered her white draperies; she gazed far off, far off amongst the purple mountains; in the valley beyond a foothill she could see a red spark of light, so high they were now, at the very summit of the circumference, the light from the hearthstone of some humble home. The golden moon still showed in a deep indentation of the horizon line. Mists hovered about the lofty domes of the range. The stars sparkled aloof in the dark blue sky.
Still he looked intently at her and her words came with difficulty: "Our party could not believe that you were the manager of this little show—not because it is a poor show, but—because—you—you seem different."
Oh, would the wheel never turn! What was she saying, and why—why—should she say it? What madness to be thus isolated between heaven and earth so that she must face out to the end the inexorable statement that she had so foolishly begun.
His coolness somewhat reassured her. "Oh, you mean that I look above my business," he said quietly; "that is, this was the opinion of your party."
"Yes," she replied in grateful renewal of confidence, "Mr. Jardine said that you looked like a gentleman—according to his interpretation, of course, I mean."
"I hope, for his sake, that it is a just interpretation," he said with a constrained, inscrutable smile. "It works overtime, that word 'gentleman'!"
"So often I have heard of a hint shaping a life," she went on to explain her meaning more clearly; "I thought that if it should occur to you that others esteemed you capable of better things it might be an inspiration to you to achieve them."
"Much obliged to Mr. Jardine," he said equivocally.
"Your associates in the show are so accustomed to you and to themselves that probably they do not perceive the difference."
"Real or imaginary," he interpolated.