Sooner, perhaps, than even he imagined, for that night Aynesworth came, pale and travel-stained, with all the volcanic evidences of a great passion blazing in his eyes, quivering in his tone. The day had passed to Wingrave as a dream, more beautiful even than any in the roll of its predecessors. They sat together on low chairs upon the moonlit lawn, in their ears the murmur of the sea; upon their faces, gathering strength with the darkness, the night wind, salt and fragrant with all the sweetness of dying flowers. Wingrave had never realized more completely what still seemed to him this wonderful gap in his life. Behind it all, he had a subconsciousness that he was but taking a part in some mystical play; yet with an abandon which, when he stopped to think of it, astonished him, he gave himself up without effort or scruple to this most amazing interlude. All day he had talked more than ever before; the flush on his cheeks was like the flush of wine or the sun which had fired his blood. As he had talked the more, so had she grown the more silent. She was sitting now with her hands clasped and her head thrown back, looking up at the stars with unseeing eyes.
“You do not regret Normandy, then?” he asked.
“No!” she murmured. “I have been happy here. I have been happier than I could ever have been in Normandy.”
He turned and looked at her with curious intentness.
“My experience,” he said thoughtfully, “of young ladies of your age is somewhat limited. But I should have thought that you would have found it—lonely.”
“Perhaps I am different, then,” she murmured. “I have never been lonely here—all my life!”
“Except,” he reminded her, “when I knew you first.”
“Ah! But that was different,” she protested. “I had no home in those days, and I was afraid of being sent away.”
It was in his mind then to tell her of the envelope with her name upon it in his study, but a sudden rush of confusing thoughts kept him silent. It was while he was laboring in the web of this tangled dream of wild but beautiful emotions that Aynesworth came. A pale, tragic figure in his travel-stained clothes, and face furrowed with anxiety, he stood over them almost before they were aware of his presence.
“Walter!” she cried, and sprang to her feet with extended hands. Wingrave’s face darkened, and the shadow of evil crept into his suddenly altered expression. It was an abrupt awakening this, and he hated the man who had brought it about.