"Do you love me?"
"Don't ask me now."
The music ceased and Suzanne was gone.
He did not see her until much later, for she slipped away to think. Her soul was stirred as with a raging storm. It seemed as though her very soul was being torn up. She was tremulous, tumultuous, unsettled, yearning, eager. She came back after a time and they danced again, but she was calmer apparently. They went out on a balcony, and he contrived to say a few words there.
"You mustn't," she pleaded. "I think we are being watched."
He left her, and on the way home in the auto he whispered: "I shall be on the west veranda tonight. Will you come?"
"I don't know, I'll try."
He walked leisurely to that place later when all was still, and sat down to wait. Gradually the great house quieted. It was one and one-thirty, and then nearly two before the door opened. A figure slipped out, the lovely form of Suzanne, dressed as she had been at the ball, a veil of lace over her hair.
"I'm so afraid," she said, "I scarcely know what I am doing. Are you sure no one will see us?"
"Let us walk down the path to the field." It was the same way they had taken in the early spring when he had met her here before. In the west hung low a waning moon, yellow, sickle shaped, very large because of the hour.