The young lady's composure seemed to tremble in the balance, and her lips twitched; then holding out her hand she took Mr. Lavender's and gave it a good squeeze.
“You really are a dear,” she said. “I think you ought to be in bed. My name's Isabel, you know.”
“Not to me,” said Mr. Lavender. “You are the Dawn; nothing shall persuade me to the contrary. And from henceforth I swear to rise with you every morning.”
“Oh, no!” cried the young lady, “please don't imagine that I sniff the matutinal as a rule. I just happened to be in a night shift.”
“No matter,” said Mr. Lavender; “I shall see you with the eye of faith, in your night shifts, and draw from the vision strength to continue my public work beckoned by the fingers of the roseate future.”
“Well,” murmured the young lady, “so long for now; and do go back to bed. It's only about five.” And waving the tips of those fingers, she ran lightly up the garden-path and disappeared into her house.
Mr. Lavender remained for a moment as if transfigured; then entering his garden, he stood gazing up at her window, until the thought that she might appear there was too much for him, and he went in.