The French window beside him was open, and Hodder slipped out, unnoticed, into the warm night and stood staring at the darkness. His one desire had been to get away, out of hearing, and he pressed forward over the tiled pavement until he stumbled against a stone balustrade that guarded a drop of five feet or so to the lawn below. At the same time he heard his name called.
“Is that you, Mr. Hodder?”
He started. The voice had a wistful tremulousness, and might almost have been the echo of the leaves stirring in the night air. Then he perceived, in a shaft of light from one of the drawing-room windows near by, a girl standing beside the balustrade; and as she came towards him, with tentative steps, the light played conjurer, catching the silvery gauze of her dress and striking an aura through the film of her hair.
“It's Nan Ferguson,” she said.
“Of course,” he exclaimed, collecting himself. “How stupid of me not to have recognized you!”
“I'm so glad you came out,” she went on impulsively, yet shyly, “I wanted to tell you how sorry I was that that thing happened at the table.”
“I like that young man,” he said.
“Do you?” she exclaimed, with unexpected gratitude. “So do I. He really isn't—so bad as he must seem.”
“I'm sure of it,” said the rector, laughing.
“I was afraid you'd think him wicked,” said Nan. “He works awfully hard, and he's sending a brother through college. He isn't a bit like—some others I know. He wants to make something of himself. And I feel responsible, because I had mother ask him to-night.”