She regained her usual manner as Baird helped her down the steps and, on reaching the walk, dropped her arm, and vented his discomfort by criticizing the moon. "The stars are doing their best—why doesn't the silly thing choose the end of the month to be full in?" he complained. "I'm afraid you will stumble."
Judith did stumble a few moments afterward, and, as a matter of course, Baird took possession of her arm. Judith judged that he had been sufficiently rebuked and also that she had proved that she needed guidance and yet was not eager to accept it, a truly feminine procedure.
And Baird was evidently bent upon gaining the terraces without offending her by too much urgency. They had come to the verge of the first terrace, and he tested the ground. "It's not muddy," he announced. "The sod is too heavy.... Shan't we go down?"
"I ought not to go so far away—some one will be wanting me," Judith objected.
"That is one reason you should go," Baird said decidedly. "You've been on duty all evening. Come, shunt it all for a few minutes." Baird had regained his assurance; it never deserted him for long.
"I should like to," Judith confessed, and her sigh was genuine enough.
"Of course you would. Isn't there a bench down there—somewhere?"
"On the edge of the last terrace—under those two cedars."
"Let's go to it—please, Wonder-woman! They'll all be out after that dance and I won't have a moment with you. Come!"
He pleaded a little masterfully, Judith thought, but as long as he did not suspect that it was his forcefulness that attracted her, all was well. "I suppose I can hear down there, if any one called," she said doubtfully.