The veranda ran round the entire house; only on one side was there a flight of steps down to the ground. The drawing-room opened out on to the other side of the house, facing the sea. It was here Mrs. Orban and Eustace went after dinner, for the day had been exhaustingly hot, and now a slight breeze blew landwards.
But for the rustling of leaves and a distant murmur from the plantation, the night was very still. As she meant to go to bed so early, Mrs. Orban did not have lamps brought out on to the veranda; she and Eustace sat close together in the gloom, their only light a faint golden streak from the drawing-room.
Becky had been in bed a long time, and was fast asleep. For a while they could hear the servants clearing away the dinner; then there was silence even in that quarter, and they knew that Mary and Kate had gone to bed.
"We ought to be going too, I think, my man," Mrs. Orban said softly.
Eustace slipped down on to a stool at her feet and rested his head against her knee.
"O mummie," he pleaded, "not just yet. Couldn't you tell me a story first?"
"I could, of course," Mrs. Orban admitted slowly, "but the question is, Ought I to? It is getting late for you."
"But it is awfully early for you," Eustace argued. "I don't believe you will sleep if you go now. You always say you can't if you go to bed too soon. You see, we needn't get up quite so early, as father isn't here to go out to the plantation."
"That is true," said Mrs. Orban with a laugh. "I really think we shall have to make a barrister of you, Eustace, you plead a cause so eloquently. But what kind of story shall I tell you?"
"Oh, one of the old home stories, please," he said instantly. "I should like to know all I can about it before Aunt Dorothy comes."