Suddenly his pace quickened. He had seen her. Next moment he was standing under her balcony. His low-pitched voice came distinctly to her ears.
"Good evening—Juliet! Quit your dreaming. Come and be sociable down here."
Delicious tremors ran through her. Much too bold, going down in the dark. But how to resist?
"I think—better not," she faltered, incipient surrender in her tone. "You see—not coming down to dinner ... Mrs Leigh ..."
"Bother Mrs Leigh. I've got a ripping inspiration about Delhi—— Hurry up. I'll be by the steps."
Then he had been thinking of Delhi. But he wanted her now; and the note of command extinguished hesitation. Slipping on a cloak, she reached the verandah without meeting a soul. He put out a hand. Purely on impulse she gave him her left one; and he conducted her down the steps with mock ceremony, as if leading her out to tread a measure to unheard strains of the viola and spinet.
Happiness ran like wine in her veins: and catching his mood she swept him a curtsey, English fashion.
"Fit for the Queen's Drawing-room!" he applauded; and she smiled up at him under her straight lashes. "Why didn't you appear at dinner? Is it a whim—hiding your light under a bushel? Or do you get headaches and heartaches working in the ward, and feel out of tune with our frivol?"
The solicitude in his tone was worth many headaches and heartaches to hear again. But with him she could not pretend.
"No—not that!" she said, treading the grass beside him, as if it were a moonlit cloud. "Only sometimes ... I am foolish—not inclined for so many faces; and all the lights and the talk."