Instantly Fletcher spoke.
"Go in, won't you? It isn't really dark. There is probably a couch with rugs and cushions."
There was, and she sat down upon it, sinking so low in downy luxuriance that she found herself resting not far from the floor. But, looking out through the marble latticework into the blue twilight, she was somewhat reassured. Though thick foliage obscured the stars, it was not really dark, as he had said.
Fletcher seated himself upon the top step, almost touching her. He seemed in no hurry to speak.
The only sound that broke the stillness was the babble of the fountain, and from far away the fitful strains of a band of stringed instruments.
Slowly at length he turned his head, just as his silence was becoming too oppressive to be borne.
"Mrs. Denvers," he said, his voice very deliberate and even, "I want to know what happened that day at Farabad to make you decide that I was not a fit escort for you."
It had come, then. He meant to have a reckoning with her. A sharp tingle of dismay went through her as she realised it. She made a quick effort to avert his suspicion.
"I wandered, and lost my way," she said. "And then I met an old native, who showed me a short cut. I ought, perhaps, to have written and explained."
"That was not all that happened," Fletcher responded gravely. "Of course, you can refuse to tell me any more. I am absolutely at your mercy. But I do not think you will refuse. It isn't treating me quite fairly, is it, to keep me in the dark?"