A quiet
sense of relief in relaxation from effort came over her as she leaned
back, conscious that there was happiness in rest and silence and the
soft envelopment of darkness.
"If it would only last," she murmured lazily.
"What, Eileen?"
"This heavenly darkness--and our drive, together. . . . You are quite
right not to talk to me; I won't, either. . . . Only I'll drone on and
on from time to time--so that you won't forget that I am here beside
you."
She lay so still for a while that at last Nina leaned forward to look at
her; then laughed.
"She's asleep," she said to Austin.
"No, I'm not," murmured the girl, unclosing her eyes; "Captain Selwyn
knows; don't you? . . . What is that sparkling--a fire-fly?"
But it was the first paper lantern glimmering through the Hitherwood
trees from the distant lawn.
"Oh, dear," sighed Eileen, sitting up with an effort, and looking
sleepily at Selwyn. "_J'ai sommeil--besoin--dormir_--"
But a few minutes later they were in the great hall of Hitherwood House,
opened from end to end to the soft sea wind, and crowded with the
gayest, noisiest throng that had gathered there in a twelvemonth.
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