disquietude. "I'm tired of running against those turtle-doves in
the walks and bushes. Let us keep on to the lane. If you are
tired, Mr. Raymond will give you his arm."

They kept on, led by the indomitable little figure, who, for once,
did not seem to linger over the attentions, both piquant and
tender, with which Garnier improved his opportunity. Given a
shadowy lane, a lovers' moon, a pair of bright and not unkindly
eyes, a charming and not distant figure--what more could he want?
Yet he wished she hadn't walked so fast. One might be vivacious,
audacious, brilliant, at an Indian trot; but impassioned--never!
The pace increased; they were actually hurrying. More than that,
Maruja had struck into a little trot; her lithe body swaying from
side to side, her little feet straight as an arrow before her;
accompanying herself with a quaint musical chant, which she
obligingly explained had been taught her as a child by Pereo. They
stopped only at the hedge, where she had that morning encountered
the tramp.

There is little doubt that the rest of the party was disconcerted:
Amita, whose figure was not adapted to this Camilla-like exercise;
Raymond, who was annoyed at the poor girl's discomfiture; and
Garnier, who had lost a golden opportunity, with the faint
suspicion of having looked ridiculous. Only Maruja's eyes, or
rather the eyes of her lamented father, seemed to enjoy it.

"You are too effeminate," she said, leaning against the fence, and
shading her eyes with her fan, as she glanced around in the staring
moonlight. "Civilization has taken away your legs. A man ought to
be able to trust to his feet all day, and to nothing else."