Each question was superfluous, of course, but she was gaining time. At length she answered slowly, “I could wish you had not asked me for this meeting, Mr. Morning.”
“But I am going away. Will you, knowing this, still refuse?”
“I will come,” she said after a pause. “We will sit here upon the veranda, after eight. The others are going, I believe, to look at the dancers.”
And, thanking her, he lifted his hat and withdrew.
The halls were not ablaze on this night, for there is not light enough in the world to coax the sullen shadows from their lurking-places in a modern interior. But the arches of heaven, albeit moonless, were more obedient, and the electric scintillations searched and filled every rood of ground with their unwarm but willing light, or chased with exact pencil the willful outlines of orange and oleander, or the more tender ways of acanthus, pepper, and palm.
Morning had wheeled a luxurious easy-chair alongside of his veranda “shaker,” and sat with his hands upon the upholstered back, waiting for the one woman in the world to him, while the promenaders, in full evening toilet, filed in pairs along the thronged corridors, and the soft strains of “La Paloma” floated down from the balcony and mingled with the plash of the sea.
“Engaged,” spoke Morning curtly, as a youthful lord, accompanying the British delegation, attempted to move the fanteuil aside.
“Beg pardon, I wish I were,” retorted the scion of a noble house, striding away with the fair one upon his arm.
“There is hope for that fellow,” Morning muttered.
“I left the baron to be taken to his room by his valet,” explained the baroness approaching. “He is a little tired and nervous,” and she loosened the lace about her throat impatiently.