"Yes—do."
He disengaged himself lingeringly, with a parting caress of his lips along her cheek. "It's cold," she murmured. "And I'm—I'm afraid." Never before in all her life had she been afraid.
He went softly along the path until the shadows hid him. After a moment he returned to the entrance. "I see nothing," said he.
"And I hear nothing—any more," replied she. "You don't know what a queer, creepy sensation I had. It was—was—as if some one were near us."
He did not seat himself by her again. "Isn't it—very—very late?" he said hesitatingly.
"Perhaps. But come, dear. Let's forget. It was nothing. Oh, I was so happy—and now—Basil, I'm cold."
Instead of sitting and taking her in his arms he drew her to her feet. "I saw your front door open," he said. "I think you'd better go."
She flung herself into his arms. "No—no!" she cried. "Not yet."
He held her closely, but soon released her. "You had better go," urged he, and she felt nervousness and constraint in his tone, in his touch.
She laughed quietly. "What are you afraid of?"