She slipped downstairs and into the garden, and began the steady walk up and down by the box hedge; this walk was sometimes the only fresh air she could get during the day. The afternoon was mild, and some hardy chrysanthemums, their bold faces flaunting in the autumn air, sent forth a pungent perfume. Whenever Betty walked in that spot, she could live over again the few happy hours of her love. This afternoon, the sight of Rosehill occupied, and the possibility that Fortescue might be there, agitated her. As she walked along in the red light of the declining day, she glanced up and saw Fortescue coming along the garden path toward her. There was something different in his aspect and carriage from what there had been, so Betty’s quick and far-seeing glance showed her at once. She stood still, while her heart beat wildly and the ever-ready blood poured into her pale cheeks.
When Fortescue reached her, he held out his hand without a word, and Betty put hers into it. For a moment they stood in agitated silence. The woman, naturally, recovered herself first.
“I had not heard that you were at Rosehill,” she said. “I only noticed just now smoke coming out of the chimneys.”
“Yes, I arrived this morning,” answered Fortescue quietly, “to stay some time.”
“Then,” said Betty, “you have a long leave.”
“I have an indefinite leave,” replied Fortescue.
Betty glanced at him in silence and surprise. They were then pacing slowly up and down the walk in the light of the scarlet and gold sunset. She saw that Fortescue was thin and pale, and that there were strange marks under his eyes.
“Have you been ill?” she asked, the words coming involuntarily.
“Not exactly,” replied Fortescue, and stopped.