“My movements are quite vague. I have settled nothing,” Rivers replied. And how could he help but look at Rosalind, who, though she never lifted her eyes, and could not have seen his look, yet changed color in some incomprehensible way? And how could he see that she changed color in the pink gloom of the shade, which obscured everything, especially such a change as that? But he did see it, and Rosalind was aware he did so. Notwithstanding his real interest in the matter, it was hard for him to respond to John Trevanion’s questions about the meeting planned for this evening. It had been arranged between them that John should accompany Rivers back to the hotel, that he should be at hand should the mysterious lady consent to see him; and the thought of this possible interview was to him as absorbing as was the question of Rosalind’s looks to his companion. But they had not much to say to each other, each being full of his own thoughts as they sat together for those few minutes after dinner which were inevitable. Then they followed each other gloomily into the drawing-room, which was vacant, though a sound of voices from outside the open window betrayed where the ladies had gone. Mrs. Lennox came indoors as they approached. “It is a little cold,” she said, with a shiver. But Rivers found it balm as he stepped out and saw Rosalind leaning upon the veranda among the late roses, with the moonlight making a sort of silvery gauze of her light dress. He came out and placed himself by her; but the window stood open behind, with John Trevanion within hearing, and Mrs. Lennox’s voice running on quite audibly close at hand. Was it always to be so? He drew very near to her, and said in a low voice, “May I not speak to you?” Rosalind looked at him with eyes which were full of a beseeching earnestness. She did not pretend to be ignorant of what he meant. The moonlight gave an additional depth of pathetic meaning to her face, out of which it stole all the color. “Oh, Mr. Rivers, not now!” she said, with an appeal which he could not resist. Poor Rivers turned and left her in the excitement of the moment. He went along the terrace to the farther side with a poor pretence of looking at the landscape, in reality to think out the situation. What could he say to recommend himself, to put himself in the foreground of her thoughts? A sudden suggestion flashed upon him, and he snatched at it without further consideration. When he returned to where he had left her, Rosalind was still there, apparently waiting. She advanced towards him shyly, with a sense of having given him pain. “I am going in now to Amy,” she said; “I waited to bid you good-night.” “One word,” he said. “Oh, nothing about myself, Miss Trevanion. I will wait, if I must not speak. But I have a message for you.”