She gave him the quickest glance of interest, as she replied in the affirmative. 39
“Colonel Duval is dead, however,” she added—“a caretaker is the only person there, now.”
“So I understood.” There was no excuse for detaining her longer. “Thank you, very much!” he ended, bowed slightly, and went on.
It is ill bred and rude to stare back at a woman, but, if ever Croyden had been tempted, it was now. He heard her footsteps growing fainter in the distance, as he continued slowly on his way. Something behind him seemed to twitch at his head, and his neck was positively stiff with the exertion necessary to keep it straight to the fore.
He wanted another look at that charming figure, with the mass of blue black hair above it, and the slender silken ankles and slim tan-shod feet below. He remembered that her eyes were blue, and that they met him through long lashes, in a languidly alluring glance; that she was fair; and that her mouth was generous, with lips full but delicate—a face, withal, that clung in his memory, and that he proposed to see again—and soon.
He walked on, so intent on his visual image, he did not notice that the Borden place was behind him now, and he was passing the avenue that led into Clarendon.
“Yass, seh! hyar yo is, marster!—hyar’s Clarendon,” called the negro, hastening up behind him with his bag.
Croyden turned into the walk—the black followed. 40
“Cun’l Duval’s done been daid dis many a day, seh,” he said. “Folks sez ez how it’s owned by some city fellah, now. Mebbe yo knows ’im, seh?”
Croyden did not answer, he was looking at the place—and the negro, with an inquisitively curious eye, relapsed into silence.