Not another word did either speak: the silence, with its pleasure and its pain, was all too eloquent. The sketch-book was held between them still: and, in turning over its pages to look at former sketches, their hands could not help--or, rather, did not help--coming in contact. What bliss it was!
"Why, you are quite in the dark, my dear! Why--dear me! who is it?"
They turned at the voice--that of Madame Guise. She had just left Miss Flora.
"Not in the dark, but in the moonlight," said Mr. North, holding out his hand.
"I did not know that you were here," she answered. "It is late."
"Very late: I hope you will forgive me. But I have been here some little time. I was taking a sketch by moonlight not far off, and came on, Madame Guise, to say Bon jour, thinking you were alone."
"It is Bon soir, I think," returned Madame, with a pleasant laugh, as she rang for lights. "Will you take a chair?"
"Thank you no," he replied, putting the sketch-book into the portfolio. "I will take my departure instead, and call again to-morrow at a more seasonable hour. Goodnight to you Miss Ethel."
Ethel put her hand into his and returned the goodnight in a low tone. When he should have left, the sunshine of the evening would have left with him. Madame Guise, as she often did, stepped across the threshold to walk to the gate with him.
"Did you want anything particular with me, George?" she asked in French, waiting until they were beyond hearing--lest the walls of the house should possess ears.