It was the woman's device to gain time. But it did not seem to have succeeded. "Not yet?" he cried, on a high note. "Is that what you mean, really? That we ought not to speak freely yet? I can wait—or I thought I could, half an hour ago! But give me a word, just a word, Rona."
He followed her up, his arm ready to go round her waist. She but just eluded him. "The word is—wait," she said: and in her fear she began to lose the control which had subdued him. "You must wait, if I say wait," she cried imperiously. And her next words sounded curiously irrelevant. "After all, I am only nineteen," she urged, indignantly.
He felt like a man pushing against a closed door—felt a deep desire to batter it down with force. Yet he could not risk her displeasure.
"Oh, Rona," he said, "it is too bad of you to torture me."
She retorted quickly, "It is you who are torturing me"—and broke off upon the word, for there was the sound of a voice raised, calling Mr. Vanston.
Impatiently Denzil went to the flight of steps which led down into the little garden where they sat. "Who is there? What do you want?" he cried testily.
"Oh, there you are, sir," cried Chant, the butler. "I knew you had come in, but couldn't find you. A cablegram, sir. Is there any answer?"
Rona's heart seemed to stop. She stood where she was, still as a statue, while Denzil opened the envelope. He seemed to grope, to fumble, to take incredibly long over the simple process.
A cablegram! Doubtless to announce that Felix was on his way. That flimsy bit of paper showed how terribly near, how accessible he was and always had been, though he had seemed so far away as not to count in one's scheme of life. And now he was coming! When? How much respite yet before she must look upon his strong, reproachful face?
Denzil glanced up, white as ashes, from the paper he held. "There is no answer," he said to Chant; and the man went away.