What she called the “lawn” was only a vast sheet of pink and white phlox, now all misty with the whirring wings of sphinx-moths and Noctuidæ.
The oak grove beyond was dusky. Cleves could see nothing among the trees.
After a moment they went forward. His arm had fallen away from her shoulders.
There were no lights except in the kitchen when they came in sight of the house. At first nobody was visible on the screened veranda under the orange trees. But when he opened the swing door for her a shadowy figure arose from a chair.
It was John Recklow. He came forward, bent his strong white head, and kissed Tressa’s hand.
“Is all well with you, Mrs. Cleves?”
“Yes. I am glad you came.”
Cleves clasped the elder man’s firm hand.
“I’m glad too, Recklow. You’ll stop with us, of course.”
“Do you really want me?”