For a moment they looked at each other without speaking, then she said, her voice at the lowest note that would reach him,
“What are you doing there?”
“Watching you.”
“Have you been standing there long?”
“No, only a few minutes. Why are you pulling the roses to pieces?”
She gave a little laugh and said something that sounded like “I don’t know,” and moved back from the balustrade.
He thought she was going, and clutched the iron spikes of the fence, calling up to her in a voice of urgent feeling, curiously out of keeping with the words, the first remark that came into his head:
“This is very different from Antelope, isn’t it?”
She came forward again and looked out and up at the sky.
“Yes,” she said gravely, “we had no moonlight there, nothing but storms and gray clouds.”