And then, looking beyond the thickly curtained windows,
she could fancy that she could see one gravely standing out there on the
lawn, standing with his one arm and his pointed beard and his eyes
appealing to be let in.

Then there was an ice that was so good that Peter Westcott and Francis
Breton seemed more outcast than ever.

III

After dinner, when the men had come into the drawing-room, they all went
out into the gardens. It was such a night of stars as Rachel had never
seen, so dense an army that all earth was conscious of them; the sky was
sheeted silver, here fading into their clouded tracery, there, at fairy
points drawing the dark woods and fields up to its splendour with lines
of fire. The world throbbed with stars, was restless under the glory of
them--God walked in all gardens that night.

At first Nita Raseley, Monty Carfax, Rachel and Roddy went together,
then, turning up a little path into the little wood that rose above the
garden, Rachel and Roddy were alone.

They found the trunk of a tree and sat down--Behind them the trees were
thin enough to show the stars, below them in a dusk lit by that
glimmering lustre that starlight flings--a glow that would be flame were
it not dimmed by distance immeasurable--they could see the lawns and
hedges of the garden and across the dark now and again some white figure
showed for an instant and was gone. The house behind the shadows rose
sharp and black.

Roddy looked big and solid sitting there. Rachel sat, even now uncertain
that she did not see Francis Breton in front of her, looking down, as
she did, into the shadowy garden.

"I hope," she said abruptly, "that you don't like Monty Carfax."

"I've never thought about him," he said. "He's certainly no pal of
mine--why?"

"Because I hate him," she said fiercely. "What right has he got to
_exist_ on a night like this?"

"He's always supposed to be a very clever feller," Roddy said slowly.
"But I think him a silly sort of ass--knows nothin' about dogs or
horses, can't play any game, only talks clever to women----"

"I can't bear that sort of man and I don't like Mr. Garden either. He's
so fat and he loves his food."

"So do I," said Roddy quite simply. "I love it too. It was a jolly good
dinner to-night."

She said nothing and then, when he had waited a little, he said
anxiously:

"I say, Miss Beaminster, we've been such jolly good friends--all these
weeks. And yet--sometimes--I'm afraid you thin