"My darling, I do not know what to think," Colonel Lockhart exclaims, anxiously. "A moment ago you were so bright and happy—now you look pale and startled, and your words are strange and wild. Has anything frightened you, my darling?"
She lifts her heavy, dark eyes almost beseechingly to his own.
"Philip, please do not talk to me, now," she says. "Do not ask me any questions. Only find me a quiet place away from the crowd, where I may rest awhile. I am ill."
"I do not know where to find such a place, unless I take you into the conservatory. I expect it is quite deserted now," he answers.
"We will go there, then," she replies.
Troubled at heart, and very anxious over his darling, Colonel Lockhart leads her down through the long vistas of fragrant bloom to a quiet seat under a slender young palm tree. There are very few flowers here—only cool, green thickets of lovely, lace-like ferns, watered by the sparkling fountain poured from the lifted urn of a marble Naiad.
"Will this spot suit you, Vera?" he inquires, anxiously.
She bows, and looks at him with her grave, sad gaze.
"Philip, you must leave me here alone for half an hour," she says, "I wish to rest awhile. Then you may come to me."
"You look so ill and pale I am almost afraid to leave you alone," he answers. "May I not remain near you, Vera? I will not talk to you, nor weary you in any way. I will sit silently and wait your pleasure."