His voice had a rustle in it of leaves before the wind. No woman could listen to it cold-hearted.
"But what are you doing in my garden?" she said in her own entrancing tones.
The man's veins thrilled in turn.
"Is it your garden? I was looking for the house of a friend. I'll go if you tell me to, but I'd much rather sit here and listen to your voice. I can't see you very well—" he finished with an air of complaint.
"How did you get in?" asked Poppy. "Isn't the gate locked?"
"My boys have a name for me of which one translation runs—all gates open to him."
"But it must be locked."
"It is not, I assure you. Though if this were my garden, it should always be—with me inside."
"You talk very oddly," said she, trying to speak coldly; "nearly as oddly as old Khayyam himself ... I trust not for the same reason!"
"You wrong me bitterly," he said. "I am trying to speak and behave with unusual decorum. It is the poetry of the night which affects me in spite of myself. You suspect some more occult reason, I see, but I can assure you on my honour that I dined quietly at the Club and drank no more than one whiskey-and-soda with my dinner."