[XI]
A cool breeze, moist and fresh from the river, was blowing across the garden, stirring the leaves to sleepy rustlings and wafting the fragrance of thousands of roses into the evening air. There was no light save the soft radiance of the stars; no sound save their voices as they strolled slowly back and forth between the hedges and swaying blossoms.
“A confession?” he was saying.
“Yes,” she answered. “I wonder if you will absolve me?”
“Kitty——”
“Wait until you hear,” she advised solemnly. “There was a paper.”
“A paper?”
“Yes, I found it on the path that first morning. It must have blown through the fence, you see. I picked it up; I didn’t know what it was. Afterwards, in the house, I found it in among the roses and—and I saw something on it that made me—made me read it. Was it frightfully wrong?”