And in consequence, Billy Woods ate absolutely no
dinner that evening.
It was an hour or two later when the moon, drifting
tardily up from the south, found Miss Hugonin and
Mr. Kennaston chatting amicably together in the court
at Selwoode. They were discussing the deplorable
tendencies of the modern drama.
The court at Selwoode lies in the angle of the building,
the ground plan of which is L-shaped. Its two
outer sides are formed by covered cloisters leading
to the palm-garden, and by moonlight—the
night bland and sweet with the odour of growing things,
vocal with plashing fountains, spangled with fire-flies
that flicker indolently among a glimmering concourse
of nymphs and fauns eternally postured in flight or
in pursuit—by moonlight, I say, the court
at Selwoode is perhaps as satisfactory a spot for
a tete-a-tete as this transitory world affords.
Mr. Kennaston was in vein to-night; he scintillated;
he was also a little nervous. This was probably
owing to the fact that Margaret, leaning against the
back of the stone bench on which they both sat, her
chin propped by her hand, was gazing at him in that
peculiar, intent fashion of hers which—as
I think I have mentioned—caused you fatuously
to believe she had forgotten there were any other trousered
beings extant.
Mr. Kennaston, however, stuck to apt phrases and nice
distinctions. The moon found it edifying, but
rather dull.
After a little Mr. Kennaston paused in his boyish,
ebullient speech, and they sat in silence. The
lisping of the fountains was very audible. In
the heavens, the moon climbed a little further and
registered a manifestly impossible hour on the sun-dial.
It also brightened.
It was a companionable sort of a moon. It invited
talk of a confidential nature.
“Bless my soul,” it was signalling to
any number of gentlemen at that moment, “there’s
only you and I and the girl here. Speak out, man!
She’ll have you now, if she ever will. You’ll
never have a chance like this again, I can tell you.
Come, now, my dear boy, I’m shining full in
your face, and you’ve no idea how becoming it
is. I’m not like that garish, blundering
sun, who doesn’t know any better than to let
her see how red and fidgetty you get when you’re
excited; I’m an old hand at such matters.
I’ve presided over these little affairs since
Babylon was a paltry village. I’ll never
tell. And—and if anything should happen,
I’m always ready to go behind a cloud, you know.
So, speak out!—speak out, man, if you’ve
the heart of a mouse!”
Thus far the conscienceless spring moon.
Mr. Kennaston sighed. The moon took this as a
promising sign and brightened over it perceptibly,
and thereby afforded him an excellent gambit.
“Yes?” said Margaret. “What
is it, beautiful?”
That, in privacy, was her fantastic name for him.
