Here was a nature as untrammelled as the wind, that delighted to roam
from land to land. Local interests, people, events, might hold him for
a time, but presently he would be gone in search of new adventures. If
he loved Felicity Wycliffe, Leigh reflected, it was only as a wanderer
loves.

Cardington was laughing in his peculiar fashion. "You will say that my
little story has a disappointing sequel; but, after all, perhaps it is
less commonplace as it is. She will remain enshrined in my memory, and
in the memory of those other travellers, as we saw her then, always
young and beautiful, and always turning upon us those lovely, enquiring
eyes. And, by the way, it is strange, is it not, that Miss Wycliffe
should have eyes similar to those of my young guide in Assisi? As far
as I know, she is of pure New England ancestry, and one does not meet
very often in this climate a glance that suggests nocturnal mystery.
No, no. The women here are different, as a rule. I remember her
mother; she was something like, but in less perfection."

Leigh, fearing that he might perhaps say too much, said nothing at all
by way of comment. Cardington's phrase, "nocturnal mystery," was a
reminder of the scene through which he had passed thus far unheeding,
and suggested its kinship with the woman of his thoughts. The vista
seemed to stretch away interminably, disclosing unexpected glimpses of
colour where the boughs displayed their changing leaves within the
radius of an electric light. Between the lights the darkness gathered
with the greater intensity because of the clouds which had now
traversed the whole expanse of the sky and bidden the stars from view.
He was conscious also of the ceaseless murmuring of the wind in the
leaves, like many voices whispering in an unknown tongue.