The man’s voice replied from the hall, “All right,” and he opened the door.
“Good morning, little woman,” he said, cheerily, boyishly. “When I saw Hector at the gate with the side saddle I thought––”
What he thought was left unfinished. The slender figure in grey turned from the window, and throwing back the veil with one hand extended the other to him, with an amused smile at his mistake.
“Judithe!” He had crossed the room; he held her hand in both of his; he could not otherwise believe in the reality of her presence. In dreams he had seen her so often thus, with the smile and the light as of golden stars deep in the brown eyes.
“Welcome to Loringwood, Col. McVeigh,” she said, softly.
“Your welcome could make it the most delightful homecoming of my life,” he said, looking down at her, “if I dared be sure I was quite welcome to your presence.”
“I am your mother’s guest,” and she met his gaze with cordial frankness; “would that be so if––oh, yes, you may be very sure I am pleased to see you home again, and especially pleased to see you here.”
“You are? Judithe, I beg pardon,” as she raised her brows in slight question. “I am not accountable this morning, Marquise; with a little time to recover myself in, I may grow more rational. To find you here is as much a surprise as though I had met you alone at sea in an open boat.”
“Alone––at sea––in an open boat,” she repeated, with a curious inflection; “but you perceive, Col. McVeigh, the situation 261 is not at all like that. I am under my own roof tree, and a very substantial one it is,” with a comprehensive glance about the imposing apartment; “and you are the first guest I have welcomed here––I am much pleased that it happened so.” When he stared at this bit of information she continued: “I have just made purchase of the estate from your friends, the Lorings––this is my first visit to it, and you are my first caller. You perceive I am really your neighbor, Monsieur.”
His eyes were bent on her with mute question; it all seemed so incredible that she should come there at all––to his country, to his home. He had left France cursing her coquetry; he had, because of her, gone straight to the frontier on his return to America, and lived the life of camps ever since; he had fancied no woman would ever again hold the sway over him she had held for that one brief season. Yet the graciousness of her tone, the frank smile in her eyes, and the touch of her hand––the beautiful hand!––