I lingered near the gate, keeping the red tip of my cigar turned toward the house, and before long a slight but interesting figure emerged from among the shadows of the trees and encountered the rays of a lamp that stood just outside the gate. My fellow solitary was in fact Aurora Church, who acknowledged my presence with an impatience not wholly convincing.
“Ought I to retire—to return to the house?”
“If you ought,” I replied, “I should be very sorry to tell you so.”
“But we’re all alone. There’s no one else in the garden.”
“It’s not the first time, then, that I’ve been alone with a young lady. I’m not at all terrified.”
“Ah, but I?” she wailed to extravagance. “I’ve never been alone—!” Quickly, however, she interrupted herself. “Bon, there’s another false note!”
“Yes, I’m obliged to admit that one’s very false.”
She stood looking at me. “I’m going away to-morrow; after that there will be no one to tell me.”
“That will matter little,” I presently returned. “Telling you will do no good.”
“Ah, why do you say that?” she all ruefully asked.