"It's tied up in double bow-knots with our hearts, all this 'Persian Garden' music," said Andrew. "Do you remember how we used to rave over it at Beverly? And I loved you even then—from the first night."
Standing behind him, Margery touched his hair.
And so evening came again, drenched in starlight and rose-perfume, and stirring rapturously to the voice of the nightingale.
"I want to speak to you."
Radwalader touched Andrew's arm as they rose from the table, and led the way directly through the open window into the garden, and, through the garden gate, into the Avenue Meissonier beyond. Once there, he fell back a step, so that they were side by side.
"Let's walk toward the river," he suggested, taking Andrew's arm.
A single lamp swung at the archway of the railroad bridge, but along the villa walls and under the trees of the Boulevard de la Seine beyond, the shadows were very dark. Once, as they passed a poplar, one shadow disengaged itself from the trunk, and at a distance followed them. A little ahead was the gaily illuminated terrace of L'Esturgeon, overhanging the river, and crowded with people dining and talking all at once.
"I saw Mirabelle yesterday," observed Radwalader. "It seems you're off scot-free."
"Did she tell you that?" asked Andrew in surprise.
"No—only that you'd parted company for good and all. I guessed the rest. I thought you'd hardly be so foolish as not to consult me, if the question of money came up."