e
was no signing to them, no beckoning: but at once, out of the midst of
their delighted preoccupation, they came. I permitted myself a discreet
glance at Alison; he was watching. I wondered whether he were any nearer
to a theory of why Jenny had proposed that we should come out on the
terrace.

Margaret Octon ran on ahead of her companion and caught hold of Jenny's
arm. Lacey came up a second later. I saw Jenny give him a smile of the
fullest understanding. The young man flushed suddenly, then laughed in
an embarrassed way.

"I know I've been here an awful time. I thought you were never coming
out," he said.

"The time seemed so long till I came, did it?" asked Jenny. She stooped
and kissed Margaret on the forehead. The girl laughed--very gently, very
happily. Jenny looked at Alison across the few feet that divided the two
small groups. Her look was an appeal--an appeal from the shy happiness
on the girl's face to the natural man that was beneath Alison's
canonicals. "Shan't the girl have her chance?" asked Jenny's eyes.

Suddenly Alison left my side and walked up to her.

"I must go now," he said, rather hastily, rather (to tell the truth) as
though he were ashamed of himself. "I think I can manage that little
commission."

She moved one step forward to meet him. "I shall be very grateful," she
told him in her low, rich, steady tones. "The other way wouldn't have
been nearly so--convenient." Her bright eyes were triumphant. "Soon?"
she asked.

"I can manage it in a day or two at longest. And now good-by. I fear
I've tired you with all my business."

The young people listened, all innocent of the covert meanings.

"Let's not be tired till our work's done!" said Jenny.

She risked that "our" and challenged his dissent. He stood swaying
between reprobation and admiration, between forswearing and alliance,
between sympathy and repulsion. She had so much--yet not that without
which, in his eyes, all else was in the end worthless.

But she had brought him--of her subtlety she had brought him--on to the
terrace. For no cup of tea tolerably stale! For nothing stale--but that
the imploring, aye, the commanding, unconscious desire, the unmeditated
appeal, the unmeant urgency, of Margaret's heart might work. "Are you
human?" asked Jenny's eyes, traveling with a slow meaning from his face
to Margaret's.

The cunning of the serpent--the simplicity of the dove! Ah, dear
serpent, what had you in your heart save to ma