A young couple passed, arm in arm, and somewhere behind him, out of the dark, rose a whispering, and a girl's laugh that told its own simple story.
For even in the deserted town the Summer night was filled with love; like a brimming cup held to the lips of youth by the wise old hand of Nature.
The lonely figure of a woman emerged from under the long white arch at Hyde Park Corner and moved across the dusty road toward the trees.
McTaggart watched her absently. Something about her graceful walk, the assured carriage of her head, stirred his latent speculation.
"I wouldn't mind betting that she's French." He lit another cigarette and pondered upon the distinctive touch that sets the Gallic race apart.
The object of his scrutiny reached at last the slight incline beneath the Achilles statue and paused, shaken by a fit of coughing.
McTaggart's face went suddenly grave as he watched the slender, graceful figure struggling with the sudden spasm.
"Poor soul!" he said to himself. For he guessed that the scourge of civilization, Consumption, had marked her for a victim. And suddenly the thought of Death, in a world renewed for him by love, sent a shiver down his spine. Some day he and Jill must part....
The woman passed her handkerchief across her lips, lowered her veil and breasted the slope wearily. Arrived at the edge of the grass, with a neat movement of her skirt, she stepped over the low rail, avoiding the dusty gravel path.
When she came to the chair where he sat, she glanced sideways at McTaggart, who stiffened a little at her approach, and the odour of scent wafted from her.