She had affected him in a most curious manner.
Another man would have declared himself in love with her. It was not
possible that she could be any one but Miss Fielding. That start which
he had fancied that he had noticed, the sudden aging of her face, the
look almost of fear! Absurd! He was losing his nerves. It was not
possible, he told himself steadfastly. And yet----
Some of the women were following them in a leisurely sort of way behind.
Miss Fielding was there, walking a little apart. She carried her hat in
her hand. The wind, which was blowing the skirts of her white cloth
dress about her, was making havoc in her glorious hair. She walked with
her head thrown back, with all the effortless grace of youth--a light
heart, an easy conscience. He deliberately left his place and walked
back to meet her. She waved her hand gayly. There was color in her
cheeks now, and her eyes laughed into his. The shadows were gone. He
felt that this was madness, and yet he said what he had come back to
say.
"I thought that you might be interested to know, Miss Fielding, that you
will meet the gentleman--with the same name as your friend--this
evening.
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