Darkham drew his breath sharply. He looked quickly round him. Had any one heard? The woman's hideous vulgarity made him sick. Try as he would, how could he raise himself with this incubus hanging round his neck?
He moved away, tired at heart, half mad with misery.
Agatha and Dillwyn had reached the garden by this time—a garden lit by heaven's own lamps, and sweet with the breath of sleeping flowers.
A few other couples were strolling up and down the paths—but over there was a garden-chair untenanted. They moved towards it in a leisurely fashion. Whether they stood or walked or sat, they were together—that was the principal thing.
"The next is mine, too," said he, in a glad voice, as if dwelling on some joy that nothing could spoil.
"Yes. We must take care not to lose it."
"And yet it is so lovely out here. Are you sure you are warm enough? And, at all events, it is a good thing to know we need not hurry—that there is no other partner waiting for either of us."
He seemed to dwell upon the "we" and "us" as if they conveyed great sweetness to him. His heart seemed full. All at once it seemed to him as though he must speak to her—must tell her of the love that filled his heart. The hour, the loneliness, the silence, all tempted him, and yet he feared!
She had known him so short a time—and what was there in her manner to him that should give him courage? Could he dare to put it to the touch to win—or lose it all? To lose! That was what held him back.
Agatha was speaking.