closed the door behind her. She disappeared in the dusk of the garden, and I had seen her but for an instant, but I remained under the impression that Aurora Church, on the eve of her departure, had come out for a meditative stroll.
I lingered near the gate, keeping the red tip of my cigar turned toward the house, and before long a young lady emerged from among the shadows of the trees and encountered the light of a lamp that stood just outside the gate. It was in fact Aurora Church, but she seemed more bent upon conversation than upon meditation. She stood a moment looking at me, and then she said,—
"Ought I to retire—to return to the house?"
"If you ought, I should be very sorry to tell you so," I answered.
"But we are all alone; there is no one else in the garden."
"It is not the first time that I have been alone with a young lady. I am not at all terrified."
"Ah, but I?" said the young girl. "I have never been alone"—then, quickly, she interrupted herself. "Good, there's another false note!"
"Yes, I am obliged to admit that one is very false."
