And he helped her up the steep embankment and into the road that led home.
The tide reached its flood and turned. The sea's low song came to them muffled by distance, and was lost in the darkness behind them. The heavy mist lifted slowly, and through the rifts, one by one, the stars appeared, peeping down at them like little children peeping from the coverings of their cribs; and by and by the moon stole from behind a cloud and moved slowly between the twinkling stars, as a nurse steals from behind a shadowy curtain and moves softly from bed to bed, to see if the children sleep.
He led her in silence through the great wrought-iron gates and up the drive, toward the lighted house, looking down into her uplifted face with his grave eyes.
And he kept looking at her all during dinner. Once she looked across at him—and smiled.
Later she complained of being tired, and she rose to go to bed. Stewart lighted her candle and waited for her at the foot of the stairs, after the fine old custom of his people. Not even Malcolm Stewart, as the elder host, ever thought of lighting Cary's candle.
Stewart handed it to her as she came up to the great stairway and stopped. To-night he did not offer to shake hands.
She took the candle and then slipped by him quickly. He called her back.
"Aren't you going to say 'good-night' to me?" he asked, a smile creeping around his mouth.
"Why—yes. Good-night."
He leaned over her and kissed her.