He was sorry he knew it, feeling ashamed of his own guiltless invasion of the girl’s privacy.

The only reparation possible was to forget it.  Like an honourable card-player who inadvertently sees his opponent’s cards, he must play his hand exactly as he would have in the beginning.  And that, he believed, would be perfectly simple.

Reassured he looked across the lawns toward the Cardross villa, a big house of coquina cement, very beautiful in its pseudo-Spanish architecture, red-tiled roofs, cool patias, arcades, and courts; the formality of terrace, wall, and fountain charmingly disguised under a riot of bloom and foliage.

The house stood farther away than he had imagined, for here the public road ended abruptly in a winding hammock-trail, and to the east the private drive of marl ran between high gates of wrought iron swung wide between carved coquina pillars.

And the house itself was very much larger than he had imagined; the starlight had illuminated only a small portion of its white facade, tricking him; for this was almost a palace—­one of those fine vigorously designed mansions, so imposing in simplicity, nicknamed by smug humility—­a “cottage,” or “villa.”

“By jingo, it’s noble!” he exclaimed, the exotic dignity of the house dawning on him by degrees as he moved forward and the southern ocean sprang into view, turquoise and amethyst inlaid streak on streak to the still horizon.

“What a chance!” he repeated under his breath; “what a chance for the noblest park ever softened into formality!  And the untouched forests beyond!—­and the lagoons!—­and the dunes to the east—­and the sea!  Lord, Lord,” he whispered with unconscious reverence, “what an Eden!”

One of the white-haired, black-skinned children of men—­though the point is locally disputed—­looked up from the grass where he squatted gathering ripe fruit under a sapodilla tree; and to an inquiry: 

“Yaas-suh, yaas-suh; Mistuh Cahdhoss in de pomelo g’ove, suh, feedin’ mud-cat to de wile-puss.”

“Doing what?”

“Feedin’ mud-fish to de wile-cat, de wile lynx-cat, suh.”  The aged negro rose, hat doffed, juicy traces of forbidden sapodillas on his face which he naively removed with the back of the blackest and most grotesquely wrinkled hand Hamil had ever seen.

“Yaas-suh; ‘scusin’ de ’gator, wile-cat love de mud-fish mostest; yaas, suh.  Ole torm-cat he fish de crick lak he was no ’count Seminole trash—­”

“One moment, uncle,” interrupted Hamil, smiling; “is that the pomelo grove?  And is that gentleman yonder Mr. Cardross?”

“Yaas-suh.”

He stood silent a moment thoughtfully watching the distant figure through the vista of green leaves, white blossoms, and great clusters of fruit hanging like globes of palest gold in the sun.

“I think,” he said absently, “that I’ll step over and speak to Mr. Cardross....  Thank you, uncle....  What kind of fruit is that you’re gathering?”