Sanford.
Built for lovers——! Well, why not? Why not? Ain’t love the strongest thing in the world?—Stronger than death?
[As Martin, incapable of answer, stares into the garden, Sanford, with a grunt, turns inside, and laboriously begins the ascent of the little staircase. Once he pauses and throws back a condescending glance. Perceiving it lost on his abstracted servant, he resumes his journey, and presently passes out of sight into the rooms above. There is a moment of pregnant silence. Then, with a smothered cry, Martin steps swiftly forward, and, arms extended in a poignant, yearning gesture, seems to greet the two persons who, unaware of him, are rounding the path to the garden. As, very close to one another, they come onward to the cottage, his arms drop, and as they mount the little steps, he withdraws into the shadows of the hedge. At this, the small feminine figure in the colonial flowered lavender and quilted poke-bonnet, slips her little black-mitted hand even more closely into the arm of her grave young escort. He wears a coat of deep bright blue and snuff-colored trousers; a high white stock is about his throat; on his head, a square hat.
Lydia.
[With clear approval, as Martin vanishes.] That was very polite of him, dear Richard! Quite as if he understood the circumstances.
Richard.
[Ardently.] Yes, yes, but pray do not let us think of that now, my darling! We are home—at last!
Lydia.
[Caressing the lace ruffle on his sleeve.] Yes, of course, dear Richard! But [With vague unrest.] we must be particular about the people—I fear he is not the only one about!
Richard.