“You were just in time, then,” said Ralston. “There’s some one coming.”
Katharine turned quickly, listened a moment, and distinguished a footfall on the stairs outside the door. She nodded, and came to his side at once.
“You will, Jack,” she said under her breath. “Say that you will—quick!”
Ralston hesitated one moment. He tried to think, but her eyes were upon him and he seemed to be under a spell. They were close together, and there was not much light in the room. He felt that the shadow of something unknown was around them both—that somewhere in the room a sweet flower was growing, not like other flowers, not common nor scented with spring—a plant full of softly twisted tendrils and pale petals and in-turned stamens—a flower of moon-leaf and fire-bloom and dusk-thorn—drooping above their two heads like a blossom-laden bough bending heavily over two exquisite statues—two statues that did not speak, whose faces did not change as the night stole silently upon them—but they were side by side, very near, and the darkness was sweet.
It was only an instant. Then their lips met.
“Yes,” he whispered, and drew back as the door opened.
Mrs. Lauderdale entered the room.
“Oh, are you there, Jack?” she asked, but without any surprise, as though she were accustomed to find him with Katharine.
“Yes,” answered Ralston, quietly. “I’ve been here ever so long. How do you do, cousin Emma?”
“Oh, I’m so tired!” exclaimed Mrs. Lauderdale. “I’ve been working all day long. I positively can’t see.”