“Mr. Macdonald,” she whispered, “your wig is awry.”
They were near the door opening to the illumined garden, with its late roses, now at their best, and hydrangea clumps plumed in foggy bloom. They stepped out of the swirl of the dance like particles thrown from a wheel, not missed that moment even by those interested in keeping them in sight.
“You knew me!” said he, triumphantly glad, as they entered the garden’s comparative gloom.
“At the first word,” said she.
“I came here in the hope that you would know me, and you alone—I came with my heart full of that hope, and you knew me at the first word!”
There was not so much marvel as satisfaction, even pride for her penetration, in it.
“Somebody else may have recognized you, too—that man who brushed against you—”
“He’s one of your officers.”
“I know—Major King. Do you know him?”
“No, and he doesn’t know me. He can have no interest in me at all.”