purity--what a blend! She's a woman alone--the blue rose of women--
and she is mine." He murmured, to some cadence of a Schubert serenade:
"My Deb! My love! My love! My queen!" and suddenly stopped short in his
musings.

Her foot crunched the gravel behind him. Without turning his head, he
sat alertly motionless for several minutes, listening, holding his
breath. Then he dropped his cigar gently.

"Fine night, Deb," he remarked aloud.

There was no immediate answer, but presently a low chuckle from the
laurel bushes.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked, imitating his casual tone.

"Couldn't explain, I'm sure. It was borne in on me, somehow."

"You did not see me."

"I don't want to see, in your case. I feel you."

There was another brief silence, and then she rustled off a step or
two.

"Well, good-night! I just came out to look for a book I left here
somewhere."

"What book?" "It doesn't matter. It is too late to read tonight,
anyhow."