It might have been vanity. He himself thought it curiosity. He had not met her since that night at the masque, when Sir Francis had come between; he had not even thought about her much, yet she had been waiting until he chose to remember.
Certainly the reflection was pleasing. He had not the vaguest idea of what he should do or say. It was utterly against his nature to form plans on any subject, but the contemplation of her faithfulness softened him into a loverlike mood.
He entered the beautiful garden, and wondered was she at home. He had left London on an impulse, and had not announced to her his coming. To meet her unexpectedly was more in keeping with the idyll; and that it was, and always had been, a very perfect idyll my lord was now convinced.
As he neared the house, walking slowly between the box borders and the beds of pinks and roses, he saw her coming down an alley overarched by a trellis covered in sweet-brier. She wore a white dress and a wide straw hat that shaded half her face. On her arm was a flat basket filled with sprays of green.
The Earl took off his hat and waited. His elegant, rich appearance seemed out of place in the simple garden, just as the heavy perfume of his clothes mingled curiously with the odours of the flowers.
She came towards him, the lovely moving shadows of thorns and leaves cast over her muslin gown, and as she stepped out into the pure faint sunlight she saw him.
"Ah, you!" she cried, without restraint or confusion. "You!"
She held out her hands, and her face expressed nothing but radiant joy.
My lord was moved and thrilled. He kissed the hands that trembled at his touch, and smiled into her eager eyes.