"Oh, have you got through at last—that everlasting reading aloud and fish-nets?" Garda inquired. "To think that I should have to give way to fish-nets?"
"I was to tell you—Lanse hopes that you will come in before long," Margaret answered.
"Hopes are good. But I shall not come in." And Garda linked her arm in her friend's. "Or rather, if I do, I shall go and sit in your room with you—may I? Good-by, Adolfo; you are not vexed with me for going?" she added. And, leaving Margaret, she went back to him, extending her hand.
He bowed over it. "Whatever pleases you—"
"You please me," answered Garda, promptly. "After they have carried off Mr. Harold to bed, those terrible men of his—about ten o'clock generally—then I never have very much to do for an hour. From ten to eleven, that is the time when I am in want of society."
"But you don't expect poor Mr. Torres to go stumbling home through the woods at midnight, just for the sake of giving you that?" Margaret suggested.
"Yes, I do. Mr. Torres never stumbled in his life. And I don't think he is at all poor," Garda answered, smiling.
He had kept her hand, he bowed over it; he did not appear to think he was, himself.
"Yes—from ten to eleven, that is much the best time. Couldn't you come then, and only then?" Garda went on. "Margaret doesn't mind, she's always late."
"Yes, I've a wretched habit of sitting up," that lady acknowledged.