n a bush, close up to the house, a nightingale was in full song. Further away, from one of the trees beyond the shadowy garden lawn, another nightingale replied. It was as if the two birds were singing against each other for mastery, pouring out, in a wild, throbbing ecstasy, the one after the other, twin cascades of lovely, liquid, matchless notes.
Judith was sitting on the moonlit verandah.
The King laughed softly to himself, when he saw her.
As usual, he had lost!
She rose to her feet, to receive him, as he approached, and so stood, tall and slender, just as she had stood on that first, memorable night, a year ago, framed in the ghostly white blossoms of the clematis creeper, which covered the verandah pillars and rail. She was wearing an evening gown of some material in white satin which had a glossy sheen that shone almost as brightly as the moonlight against the dark background of the silent house. She was bareheaded, and the light, night breeze had ruffled one or two tresses of her luxuriant jet black hair. Her beautiful, vivid face was flushed. Her deep, dark, mysterious eyes were aglow. Her lips were parted in a little smile of mingled humour and triumph.
"I knew that you would come tonight," she said.
The King stepped up on to the verandah, to her side.
"I had to come," he confessed.
"It is a long time, a week, ten days, since you were here."
"I am not my own master. I have been—very busy. They have given me—promotion!"