She took the farther path, a choice he applauded silently, since she would not discover him until she turned at the bottom of the garden, when flight with dignity would be out of the question. Now and then he caught fleeting glimpses of her hat above the bushes as she moved along and heard the clipping of the scissors. As she neared the corner he dipped pen in ink and wrote industriously:
“Belle Harbour, Virginia, June 3.
“She’s coming; she’s almost in sight. I don’t quite know what I am writing. The situation grows intense. Will she retreat or advance? I can see the white of her gown through the leaves. She is almost at the corner of the path. My courage is ebbing fast; if she delays much longer, I shall beat a disordered retreat myself. Now! She’s coming, coming, coming—she’s here....”
The girl came around the corner.
She was humming softly to herself and swinging her basket. Burton’s head was bent over the table. She stopped and added a cluster of damask roses to her store. When she raised her head her eyes sought the window that had harbored the foe the previous day; it was empty. Undoubtedly she was vastly relieved, even if her countenance didn’t express it. Alas! little did she think that the enemy was entrenched almost beside her. Unsuspectingly, carelessly, still humming her little air, she drew nearer and nearer to his position.
Suddenly the humming ceased abruptly. Burton’s heart gave a leap and he brought his artillery into action. He raised his eyes calmly—they belied the tumult in his breast—and gazed with polite surprise into hers. She returned his look with one expressive of amaze and—yes—appreciation; ere she turned her head away and bent over a bush the ghost of a smile, a roguish and demure smile, crept around her mouth. Then the abominable hat hid her.
Burton was grateful for the respite; his forces were becoming disorganized. He took a long breath and—