"I think of little else," he said.
There was a silence. Between them, along the barrier of heliotrope and mignonette, the little dusk moths came hovering on misty wings; the sun had set, but the zenith was bright crimson. Perhaps it was the reflection from that high radiance that seemed to tint her face with a softer carmine.
She looked out into the West across the stream, thinking now that for them both the end of things was drawing very near. And, to meet fate half way with serenity—nay, to greet destiny while still far off, with a smile, she unconsciously straightened in her chair and lifted her proud little head.
"Lord Marque," she said quietly, "why do you not go back to England?"
For a moment what she had said held no meaning for him. Then comprehension smote him like lightning; and, thunderstruck, he remained as he was without moving a muscle, still resting against her window-sill, his lean, sun-browned face illuminated under the zenith's fiery glory.
"Who are you?" he said, under his breath.
"Only an English girl who happened to have seen you in London."
"When?"
She turned deliberately and, resting one arm across the back of her chair, looked him steadily in the eyes.
"I am twenty-five. Since I was twenty your face has been familiar to me."