house door, and stood for a while listening
to the empty answering echoes and to the drip-drip of rain from the
eaves. Evidently there was no one there. He drew back into the
shrubberies; great showers of drops were shaken down on him from the
gold-powdered mimosa blossoms that met above his head; he shook
himself impatiently, like a dog that is disturbed while on guard. From
where he stood he could see the gate and the grass-grown path that led
from it to the house. The time passed very slowly. He looked at his
watch four times in the next fifteen minutes, and he was beginning to
wonder if he had not left Florence on a fool's errand when Olive came.

He saw her fumbling with the key; it was hard to turn in the rusty
lock, and she had to close her umbrella and stand it against the wall
so as to have both hands free. The gate swung open slowly, creaking on
its warped hinges. Jean noticed that she left it unlatched and that
she looked back over her shoulder twice as she came down the path, as
though she thought someone might be following her.

She opened the house door with a key she had and went in, and he came
after her. He stood for a moment on the threshold listening. She was
hurrying from room to room, opening the shutters and the windows and
letting in the light and air; the doors banged after her, and muslin
curtains flapped like wings as the wind blew them.

His heart was beating so that he thought she must hear it before she
saw him, before his step sounded in the passage. As he came in she
gave a sort of little cry and ran to him, and he put his arms about
her and kissed her again and again; her dear lips that were wet and
cold with rain, her soft brown hair, the curves of cheek and chin that
were as sweet to feel as to see. One small hand held the lapel of his
coat, and he was pleasantly aware of the other being laid about his
neck. She had wanted him so much--and he had come.

"Thank God, you are here, Jean. Oh, if you knew how frightened I have
been."

He kissed her once more, and then, framing her face with his hands, he
looked down into her eyes. The blue eyes yearned to his, but there
was fear in them still, and he saw the colour he had brought into her
cheeks fading.

"I am not worth all the trouble I have given you."

"Perhaps not," he said, smiling. "Hilaire sent you a long message, but
I want to hear what we are supposed to be doing here first."

"Dear Hilaire!... Jean, you won't be angry?"