Cissy stopped short, peering through the feathery green.
Florence knew that the other two there in the sun were the logical result of what she had sent Thair to accomplish, what through the night she had made out was due to Longacre—his chance to be sure of himself, to see just where he stood. Did he? Had he? If not, he must have more time. In giving him that, she would have done what she could. He must see it through his own eyes.
She couldn’t, with straight words, let him go. But she could help him to seeing; she could let him alone. She turned to go on, but Cissy had assured herself, through her peep-hole, of the identity of the person she sought.
“There’s dear Julia,” she tinkled. “I haven’t seen her this morning. I must—I really must speak to her!”
She made a preliminary movement toward an opening in the fennel, her skirts held high above her pretty, preposterous shoes.
“Oh, would you?”
Something in the tone made Cissy feel ridiculous. She hesitated, hating to meet the other woman’s look. She raised her voice. “I’m sure I don’t see why not!”
“Her skirts held high above her pretty, preposterous shoes”
Florence saw Longacre turn as Cissy flounced through the hedge; then she went quickly up the path without looking back. Her eyes took in the sudden flight of a linnet out of a cypress bough, the flickering shadows of the fennel blurring the walk, and the white glass-room door at the end. Her ears heard a hurrying tread behind her. She felt the urge of pursuit, a keen joy that he still would, though he should not!