"It is only the fog," she answered our sympathy. "It came on with the evening, somehow. Never mind me. Cristina has made a cream-of-lettuce bisque, and she will never forgive us if we do not eat every bit. Yes, Ethan; of course I'll take mine. I only wish every bush and tree would not drip, drip like a horrid kind of clock ticking; and the foghorns over at the lighthouses moo regularly every half minute. And I never heard the waterfall over the dam so loud!"
"We've had a wet summer," Vere observed, soothingly tranquil as ever. "The lake and creek are full. There is more water going over to make a noise."
"Please do not be so frightfully sensible, Drawls. You know I mean a different loudness. It sort of rises up and swims all over one, then dies away."
"Even a fountain will seem to do that if a wind shifts the spray," I suggested.
"Yes, Cousin Roger. But there is no wind tonight."
A discomfort stirred me at the simple reminder. I fancied Vere was similarly affected. If something moved under the water——?
We changed the conversation to a pergola planned for building next spring, that was to be overrun by grapevines and honeysuckle.
"The grapes shall hang through like an Italian picture," Phillida anticipated, headache forgotten in her enthusiasm. She shook her hair about her pink cheeks, leaning over to outline a pergola with four spoons. "Here in the middle we must have a birdbath. Or no! The birds might peck the grapes. We could have one of those big silver-colored looking-balls on a pedestal to reflect wee views of the garden and lake and sky, with people moving no bigger than dolls. Imagine a reflection of Ethan like a Lilliputian so high!"
So I was able to leave her eagerly hunting catalogues of garden ornaments in her sewing-room, when the time came for me to keep my rendezvous with Death or the lady. In spite of my warning gesture, Vere followed me into the hall. His dark face was distressed and anxious.
"Let me go with you," he urged.