The sun hung low over the flat little tree-clad mountains, which the lake, now inlaid with pink and gold, reflected. A few fallow deer moved quietly down there, ruddy spots against the turf.
Duane, carrying his glass with him, rose and stepped across the strip of grass to her side, and, glancing askance at her, was on the point of speaking when he discovered that her eyes were shut and her face colourless and rigid.
"What is it?" he asked surprised. "Are you feeling faint, Geraldine?"
She opened her eyes, velvet dark and troubled, but did not turn around.
"It's nothing," she answered calmly. "I was thinking of several things."
"I am perfectly well. Bend over the parapet with me, Duane. Look at those rocks down there. What a tumble! What a death!"
He placed his glass between them on the coping, and leaned over. She did not notice the glass for a moment. Suddenly she wheeled, as though he had spoken, and her eyes fell on the glass.
"What _is_ the matter?" he demanded, as she turned on her heel and moved away.
"I'm a trifle nervous, I believe. If you want to see the big trout breaking on Hurryon, you'd better come with me."
She was walking swiftly down the drive to the south of the house. He overtook her and fell into slower step beside her.
The sun had almost disappeared behind the mountains; bluish haze veiled the valley; a horizon of dazzling yellow flecked with violet faded upward to palest turquoise. High overhead a feathered cloud hung, tinged with rose.
The south drive was bordered deep in syringas, all over snowy bloom; and as they passed they inhaled the full fragrance of the flowers with every breath.
"It's like heaven," said Duane; "and you are not incongruous in the landscape, either."
She looked around at him; the smile that curved her mouth had the faintest suspicion of tenderness about it.
"Do you realise that I am genuinely glad to see you? I've been horrid to you. I don't yet really believe in you, Duane. I detest some of the things you are and say and do; but, after all, I've missed you. Incredible as it sounds, I've been a little lonely without you."
He said gaily: "When a woman becomes accustomed to chasing the family cat out of the parlour with the broom, she misses the sport when the cat migrates permanently."