A broad drive led to the front door. The night was drawing in rapidly, and the moon would not rise until eleven o’clock. In the curving avenue it was pitch-dark, but a cheerful light shone from the drawing-room, and through an open French window he could see Elsie bending over a book.
She was not deeply interested, judging by the listless manner in which she turned the leaves. She was leaning with her elbows on the table, resting one knee on a chair, and the attitude revealed a foot and ankle quite as gracefully proportioned as Angèle’s elegant limbs, though Elsie was more robust.
Hearing the boy’s firm tread on the graveled approach, she straightened herself and ran to the window.
“Who is there?” she said. Martin stepped into the light.
“Oh, it’s you!”
“Yes, Miss Herbert. Mother sent me with these.”
He held out the parcel of linen.
“What is it?” she asked, extending a hesitating hand.
“It is perfectly harmless, if you stroke it gently.”