Philidor sat for a long while in the arbor smoking a pipe. He had much to think about. One by one the lights went out, and the village grew quiet. The moon rose over the forest on the hilltop beyond the stream, and he stretched his limbs and smiled at it in drowsy content. He was so wrapped in his reflections that he hardly heard a voice which came to him over the yellow roses.
"Bonne nuit, Philidor."
"Hermia!"
"You're to go to bed—at once."
"I couldn't. Imagine a saint going to bed."
"You're not a saint. You're a prowler."
"Let me prowl. I'm happy."
"Why should you be?"
"I love you."
The shutter above him closed abruptly. He waited in the shadow of the wall looking upward. There was no sound.