“Greta, fetch me my little black hat, my black-lace shawl and a pair of gloves.”
The servant rose and went into the house. Cecile noticed how a trifle of shyness was emphasized in Quaerts’ hesitation, now that they stood loitering, waiting among the flower-beds. She smiled, plucked a rose and placed it in her waist-band.
“Have the boys gone to bed?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied, still smiling, “long ago.”
The servant returned; Cecile put on the little black hat, threw the lace about her neck, but refused the gloves which Greta offered her:
“No, not these; get me a pair of grey ones....”
The servant went into the house again; and as Cecile looked at Quaerts her gaiety increased. She gave a little laugh:
“What is the matter?” she asked, mischievously, knowing perfectly well what it was.
“Nothing, nothing!” he said, vaguely, and waited patiently until Greta returned.
Then they went through the garden-gate into the Woods. They walked slowly, without speaking; Cecile played with her long gloves, not putting them on.