It was a still night, save only for the rushing waters of the river. The lamps of the sky had all been lit and were gleaming coldly millions of miles away. The shadowed moonlight in the trees offered a stage set to lowered lights.
The thoughts of the girl had drifted to speculation about the transplanted countryman of hers whose personality had come to interest her so greatly. He had challenged her trust in him and she had responded with a pledge. He had not explained a single one of the suspicious circumstances against him. He had not taken her into his confidence, nor had he in so many words declared his innocence. She was glad he had told her nothing, had demanded her faith as a matter of course. It was part of her pride in him that she could believe without evidence. All the world would know he was not guilty after he had shown his proofs. It would be no test of friendship to stand by him then.
A step sounded on the gravel behind her and an arm opened to let her hand slip round the elbow.
"May I stroll out this dance with you, Miss Dwight?" Lord Farquhar asked formally, dropping into step with her.
Moya and her guardian were kindred spirits. They never needed to explain themselves to each other. Both knew how to make-believe.
"If you're not afraid of a scandal at being alone with me so far from a chaperone," the girl answered lightly.
He burlesqued a sigh. "I'm only afraid there won't be any. It's the penalty of age, my dear. I can claim all sorts of privileges without making Verinder jealous."
"Oh, Verinder," she scoffed.
"Should I have said Kilmeny?" he asked.
"I'll tell you a secret, guardy," whispered Moya gayly. "You're a hundred years younger than either of them."