trifling incidents of the day which had begun to delineate a character for her. They were, she found, all unpleasant, all, at least, faintly disagreeable. Yet, in sum, what was their meaning? The sketch they traced was so slight, so confused, that it told little. The last incident was the strangest. And again she saw the long and luminous pathway of the tunnel, flickering with light and shade, carpeted with the pale reflections of the leaves and narrow branches of the trees, the black figure of the priest far down it, and the tall form of the stranger in an attitude of painful hesitation. Each time she had seen him, apparently desirous of doing something definite, hesitation had overtaken him. In his indecision there was something horrible to her, something alarming.
She wished he was not standing behind her, and her discomfort increased. She could still hear the voices of the soldiers in the café. Perhaps he was listening to them. They sounded louder.
The speakers were getting up from their seats. There was a jingling of spurs, a tramp of feet, and the voices died away. The church bell chimed again. As it did so Domini heard heavy and uneven steps cross the verandah hurriedly. An instant later she heard a window shut sharply.
“Suzanne!” she called.
Her maid appeared, yawning, with various parcels in her hands.
“Yes, Mademoiselle.”
“I sha’n’t go down to the salle-a-manger to-night. Tell them to give me some dinner in my salon.”
“Yes, Mademoiselle.”
“You did not see who was on the verandah just now?”
The maid looked surprised.
“I was in Mademoiselle’s room.”
“Yes. How near the church is.”
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