Slim and active he moved across the grass, and there came to her ears a slight jingle of spurs. He had ridden then. A sudden memory of the man's free insolence in the saddle swept over her, his domination, his imperial arrogance. Turning to meet him, she knew that she was quivering from head to foot.
He came straight up to her, halted before her. "Have you no welcome for me?" he said.
By sheer physical effort she compelled herself to face him, to meet the fierce, challenging scrutiny which she knew awaited her. She held out her hand to him. "I am always glad to see you, Nap," she said.
He took her hand in a sinewy, compelling grip. "Although you prefer good men," he said.
The ground on which she stood seemed to be shaking, yet she forced herself to smile, ignoring his words.
"Let us go and sit down," she said.
Close by was a seat under a great lilac tree in full purple bloom. She moved to it and sat down, but Nap remained upon his feet, watching her still.
The air was laden with perfume—the wonderful indescribable essences of spring. Away in the distance, faintly heard, arose the bleating of lambs. Near at hand, throned among the purple flowers above their heads, a thrush was pouring out the rapture that thrilled his tiny life. The whole world pulsed to the one great melody—the universal, wordless song. Only the man and the woman were silent as intruders in a sacred place.
Anne moved at last. She looked up very steadily, and spoke. "It seems like holy ground," she said.
Her voice was hushed, yet it had in it a note of pleading. Her eyes besought him.