"I'll call Mrs. Wright if you'd rather see her. She's in her room writin' a letter."
"No, no, don't trouble yourself," said the visitor, lightly. "Good night."
He moved away quickly toward the Villa Chantecler and made a détour around it. The little piazza overlooking the sea gleamed white in the moonlight. The bay leaves stood up crisp and polished. Edgar recalled the mocking in Violet's eyes as they had sat there this afternoon. To lose an evening like this. It was a crime!
Coming out beside the orchard he looked up at the windows of Violet's room. They were dark.
His hopeful vanity relinquished the hope that she had manœuvred to get rid of Phil in order to leave the coast clear for himself. He moved up the incline and threw himself down in the shadow. He could hear a stir at the front of the house. The lingerers in the moonlight were moving inside and he could see lamps twinkle in rooms where the shades were pulled down.
In a few minutes more all lights vanished. Only the rising tide broke the stillness. Edgar had been giving himself over to dreams of a brilliant future in which his only handicap consisted of his father's money. Would the cynical blasé critics be able to be as fair to him as if he had been discovered among the peasants of Italy?
Suddenly he realized that never would a more wonderful stage-setting be his than that which now surrounded him. He rose on his elbow and looked up again at Violet's windows.
Then he began to sing. Into the girl's unrestful dreams the sound fell like balm:——
"Drink to me only with thine eyes,