"
She had hardly gone in when the wanderers came out of the
shrubbery and rejoined me. Chillington wore his usual passive
look, but Miss Liston's face was happy and radiant. Chillington
passed on into the drawing room. Miss Liston lingered a
moment by me.
"Why, you look," said I, "as if you'd invented the finest scene
ever written."
She did not answer me directly, but stood looking up at the
stars. Then she said, in a dreamy tone:
"I think I shall stick to my old idea in the book."
As she spoke, Chillington came out. Even in the dim light I saw
a frown on his face.
"I say, Wynne," said he, "where's Miss Myles?"
"She's gone to bed," I answered. "She told me to wish you good
night for her, Miss Liston. No message for you, Chillington."
Miss Liston's eyes were on him. He took no notice of her; he
stood frowning for an instant, then, with some muttered
ejaculation, he strode back into the house. We heard his heavy
tread across the drawing room; we heard the door slammed behind
him, and I found myself looking on Miss Liston's altered face.
"What does he want her for, I wonder!" she said, in an agitation
that made my presence, my thoughts, my suspicions, nothing to
her. "He said nothing to me about wanting to speak to her to-
night." And she walked slowly into the house, her eyes on the
ground, and all the light gone from her face, and the joy dead in
it. Whereupon I, left alone, began to rail at the gods that a
dear, silly little soul like Miss Liston should bother her poor,
silly little head about a hulking fool; in which reflections I
did, of course, immense injustice not only to an eminent author,
but also to a perfectly honorable, though somewhat dense and
decidedly conceited, gentleman.
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