There was an imploring, urgent look in her face which struck Mrs. Lane.
But Mr. Lane's loud friendly voice broke in from behind.
"My dear Miss Boyce!—we can't possibly allow it—no! no—just half an hour—while they bring us our coffee—to do your homage, you know, to the terrace—and the river—and the moon!—And then—if you don't want to go back to the House for the division, we will see you safely into your cab. Look at the moon!—and the tide"—they had come to the wide door opening on the terrace—"aren't they doing their very best for you?"
Marcella looked behind her in despair. Where was Edith? Far in the rear!—and fully occupied apparently with two or three pleasant companions. She could not help herself. She was carried on, with Mr. Lane chatting beside her—though the sight of the shining terrace, with its moonlit crowd of figures, breathed into her a terror and pain she could hardly control.
"Come and look at the water," she said to Mr. Lane; "I would rather not walk up and down if you don't mind."
He thought she was tired, and politely led her through the sitting or promenading groups till once more she was leaning over the parapet, now trying to talk, now to absorb herself in the magic of bridge, river, and sky, but in reality listening all the time with a shrinking heart for the voices and the footfalls that she dreaded. Lady Winterbourne, above all! How unlucky! It was only that morning that she had received a forwarded letter from that old friend, asking urgently for news and her address.
"Well, how did you like the speech to-night—the speech?" said Mr. Lane, a genial Gladstonian member, more heavily weighted with estates than with ideas. "It was splendid, wasn't it?—in the way of speaking. Speeches like that are a safety-valve—that's my view of it. Have 'em out—all these ideas—get 'em discussed!"—with a good-humoured shake of the head for emphasis. "Does nobody any harm and may do good. I can tell you, Miss Boyce, the House of Commons is a capital place for taming these clever young men!—you must give them their head—and they make excellent fellows after a bit. Why—who's this?—My dear Lady Winterbourne!—this is a sight for sair een!"
And the portly member with great effusion grasped the hand of a stately lady in black, whose abundant white hair caught the moonlight.
"Marcella!" cried a woman's voice.
Yes—there he was!—close behind Lady Winterbourne. In the soft darkness he and his party had run upon the two persons talking over the wall without an idea—a suspicion.
She hurriedly withdrew herself from Lady Winterbourne, hesitated a second, then held out her hand to him. The light was behind him. She could not see his face in the darkness; but she was suddenly and strangely conscious of the whole scene—of the great dark building with its lines of fairy-lit gothic windows—the blue gulf of the river crossed by lines of wavering light—the swift passage of a steamer with its illuminated saloon and crowded deck—of the wonderful mixture of moonlight and sunset in the air and sky—of this dark figure in front of her.