"In the soft warm blue of twilight ... or the blazing glories of Autumn ... a soldier, radiant, glowing.... Then Love may come to you.... Thus may Love come to you!"
"In the soft warm blue of twilight ... or the blazing glories of Autumn ... a soldier, radiant, glowing...."
The words would not leave her. And, every time she saw them, they conjured up before her eyes—again, she could not tell why—a picture of the man she had met that afternoon.
Hector finished his walk that night in a pleasant reverie, thankful that the gods had rewarded his charitable visit so swiftly and so kindly. After dinner, careful to conceal the depth of his interest, he described the girl to Mrs. Tweedy.
"Sort of red-headed girl, eh?" said the good lady. "Well, not exactly red-headed—more goldish, copperish, bronzish! With beautiful features—almost classical, I think—but not so inhuman—taller than most girls—and such a voice! Of course I know her! That's Frances Edginton—Major Edginton's daughter—an only child. She has the sweetest little mother—oh, such a sweet woman! He's a bit of a tyrant, though—regular martinet—stuck up, I think—well off, retired Army, and very strict in his ideas. No, they don't live here. Where do the Edgintons live, Arthur? Don't know? Neither do I. I don't believe anyone does. They're only here for the summer. In fact, this is the first summer they've been in Arcady. Yes, that's his daughter—Frances Edginton. Lovely, I think—yes, that's the word! Lovely!"
"I'll have to meet her again," thought Hector, "just to show I've found out. Lynette—eh?—Frances—not much alike—both awfully pretty——"
Turning in that night, he was astonished to find that he could not put Frances out of his mind. Her face remained before him, sometimes with that bantering little smile upon it, sometimes sweetly serious and framed, always, with that radiant halo of red-gold hair. Now he was watching her sitting on the stile in tearful contemplation of her torn new dress. Now he was holding her hand again, feeling the gentle pressure of her fingers when she thanked him. Now he was listening to her laugh, heir merry, bubbling little laugh, now to her voice, that was one moment level, smooth, passionless, the next intense and earnest and always soft and melodious as running water, caressing as a summer breeze. Really, her voice—it was something quite extraordinary. He quite agreed with Mrs. Tweedy there!
Voice, laugh, face, eyes, hair—one after another, round and round, they all came back throughout the night. It was a pleasure simply to think about them. Was he growing sentimental, he wondered? What was the matter with him, anyhow?
In the morning, he knew—or thought he knew.
"I must be in love—at last."