They talked but little, and she was slightly surprised at his asking
for no more news of what her mother had said; but she had no need of
talk--there were a sense and a sound in everything to which words had
nothing to add. They smoked and smoked, and there was a sweetness in her
stepfather's silence. At last he said: "Let us take another turn--but
you must go to bed soon. Oh you know, we're going to have a system!"
Their turn was back into the garden, along the dusky paths from which
they could see the black masts and the red lights of boats and hear the
calls and cries that evidently had to do with happy foreign travel; and
their system was once more to get on beautifully in this further lounge
without a definite exchange. Yet he finally spoke--he broke out as he
tossed away the match from which he had taken a fresh light: "I must go
for a stroll. I'm in a fidget--I must walk it off." She fell in with
this as she fell in with everything; on which he went on: "You go up to
Miss Ash"--it was the name they had started; "you must see she's not in
mischief. Can you find your way alone?"
"Oh yes; I've been up and down seven times." She positively enjoyed the
prospect of an eighth.
Still they didn't separate; they stood smoking together under the stars.
Then at last Sir Claude produced it. "I'm free--I'm free."
She looked up at him; it was the very spot on which a couple of hours
before she had looked up at her mother. "You're free--you're free.
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