The end of the chiffon scarf rose to meet a passing breeze, then fell back against the softness of her arm. A great grey-winged night moth fluttered past them. From the high bough of a distant maple came the frightened twitter of little birds, wakeful in the night, and the soft, murmurous voice of the brooding mother, soothing them.
"How did you know?" asked Alden, slowly.
"Oh, I just knew. You were looking at my dressing-table first, and you picked up the picture without thinking. Then, as soon as you knew who it was, you put it down, found the scarf, and came out."
"Do you love him?"
"No. That is, I don't think I do. But—oh," she added, with a sharp indrawing of her breath, "how I did love him!"
"And he—" Alden went on. "Does he love you?"
"I suppose so, in his way. As much as he is capable of caring for anything except himself, he cares for me."
She rose and walked restlessly along the veranda, the man following her with his eyes, until she reached the latticed end, where a climbing crimson rose, in full bloom, breathed the fragrance of some far Persian garden. Reaching up, she picked one, on a long, slender stem.
The Crimson Rose
Alden appeared beside her, with his knife in his hand. "Shall I take off the thorns for you?"