She was rosy enough now, and would have withdrawn her hand, but
Islington detained it. She was not quite certain but that her waist
was also in jeopardy. Yet she could not help saying, "Are you sure that
there isn't anything in the way of a young woman that would keep you?"

"Blanche!" said Islington in reproachful horror.

"If gentlemen will roar out their secrets before an open window, with
a young woman lying on a sofa on the veranda, reading a stupid French
novel, they must not be surprised if she gives more attention to them
than her book."

"Then you know all, Blanche?"

"I know," said Blanche, "let's see--I know the partiklar style
of--ahem!--fool you was, and expected no better. Good by." And, gliding
like a lovely and innocent milk snake out of his grasp, she slipped
away.


To the pleasant ripple of waves, the sound of music and light voices,
the yellow midsummer moon again rose over Greyport. It looked upon
formless masses of rock and shrubbery, wide spaces of lawn and beach,
and a shimmering expanse of water. It singled out particular objects,--a
white sail in shore, a crystal globe upon the lawn, and flashed upon
something held between the teeth of a crouching figure scaling the low
wall of Cliffwood Lodge. Then, as a man and woman passed out from under
the shadows of the foliage into the open moonlight of the garden path,
the figure leaped from the wall, and stood erect and waiting in the
shadow.