As she sank into her chair—
“All right?” queried Ivan.
Belinda nodded.
The night was marvellous.
The moon sailed in the heaven, a clean-cut stoup of glory upon a violet field. Far on the left Spain sloped to the ocean with the crouch of a drinking beast. To the right a lazy school of surf marched out of vision. A fitful breeze played with the sweet-smelling air as a kitten will play with a fringe.
Belinda sighed.
“The worst of a place like this,” she said slowly, “is that it always seems such a shame to go away.”
Ivan’s heart stood still.
“I—I hope you aren’t going,” he stammered.
“I must on Thursday,” said Belinda, twisting her pretty hands. “Lady Cherubic’s sister is beginning to stamp, and I can’t presume upon her kindness.”