"I'll look for them," he replied.
She smiled and nodded to herself, as he turned away; but the frown which had shown itself on her brow at dinner returned and remained long after she was in her room.
"If—if history should repeat itself!" she murmured.
Phil started up the path which the figure he was seeking had taken. The moonbeams held until on a bench under a tree they revealed her with head turned away and bent, still in thought.
"Hello!" he called, stooping to pass under the branches.
"Hello!" was the answer of surprise.
"Do I disturb a brown study?" he asked.
"Almost black in this darkness—no, not black—just human!" she answered, without looking around.
Very sweet that voice in the darkness, resonant with fellowship. No man ever knows why the impulse comes; but most men know the incident that let it go. With Phil it was the voice associated with a face in front of an easel. They had the night and the world to themselves, there under the tree. He might best have made his speech looking into her eyes under another tree where she was making a portrait; but it did not happen that way, such things being always as they happen.
"I have something to say to you. Please listen!"