“I didn’t mean to come here,” he said to himself, “but now that I’m here I might as well go on and tantalize myself with a look at the house.”
Another minute brought him to a broad gate, flanked by high stone pillars. A well-kept drive-way swept curving back to a large white house, a house a little too pretentious to entirely please Ethan. On one side,—the side, as he knew, nearest the lotus pool,—an uncovered porch jutted out, and from this steps led to a white pergola. The latter was a recent addition and as yet the grapevines had not succeeded wholly in covering its nakedness. From one of the windows on the lower floor of the house a dull orange glow emanated.
“They’ve got a fire there,” said Ethan, “and she’s sitting in front of it. Wish I was!”
He settled the collar of his raincoat closer about his neck to keep out the drops, and sighed.
“You know,” he went on then, somewhat defiantly, addressing himself apparently to the residence, “there’s no reason why I shouldn’t walk right up the drive, ring the bell and ask for—for Mr. Devereux. I’ve got the best excuse in the world. And once inside it would be odd if I didn’t see Her. I’ve half a mind to do it! Only—perhaps she’d rather I wouldn’t. And—I won’t.”
He took a final survey of the premises and turned away with another sigh. Before he had reached the Inn the clouds had broken in the south and a little wind was shaking the raindrops from the leaves along the road.
