They laughed delightedly over this, clinging together like two children. Then they stepped out on the little porch and looked into the fathomless night. The sky was full of stars, aloof and calm, but waiting breathless on the edge of action, attending the word of command or the celestial vision, or whatever it is for which stars seem to wait. Along the street the dense velvet shade of the maples threw the sidewalks into impenetrable blackness. Sounds carried clearly. From the Welton's, down the street, came the tinkle of a mandolin and an occasional low laugh from the group of young people that nightly frequented the front steps. Tree toads chirped in unison or fell abruptly silent as though by signal. All up and down the rows of houses whirred the low monotone of the lawn sprinklers, and the aroma of their wetness was borne cool and refreshing through the tepid air.
Orde and his wife sat together on the top step. He slipped his arm about her. They said nothing, but breathed deep of the quiet happiness that filled their lives.
The gate latch clicked and two shadowy figures defined themselves approaching up the concrete walk.
“Hullo!” called Orde cheerfully into the darkness.
“Hullo!” a man's voice instantly responded.
“Taylor and Clara,” said Orde to Carroll with satisfaction. “Just the man I wanted to see.”
The lawyer and his wife mounted the steps. He was a quick, energetic, spare man, with lean cheeks, a bristling, clipped moustache, and a slight stoop to his shoulders. She was small, piquant, almost child-like, with a dainty up-turned nose, a large and lustrous eye, a constant, bird-like animation of manner—the Folly of artists, the adorable, lovable, harmless Folly standing tiptoe on a complaisant world.
“Just the man I wanted to see,” repeated Orde, as the two approached.
Clara Taylor stopped short and considered him for a moment.
“Let us away,” she said seriously to Carroll. “My prophetic soul tells me they are going to talk business, and if any more business is talked in my presence, I shall EXPIRE!”