In this position, with their backs to the garden, without seeing, they were seen by two turning the crook in the fennel walk, and thus quite innocently had the effect of checking the flow of extraordinarily amiable chat with which these two had, for the last five minutes, beguiled the time while waiting for Mrs. Budd and Thair. Cissy stopped short, peering through the feathery green. Florence knew that the other two there in the sun were the logical result of what she had sent Thair to accomplish, what through the night she had made out was due to Longacre—his chance to be sure of himself, to see just where he stood. _Did_ he? _Had_ he? If not, he must have more time. In giving him that, she would have done what she could. He must see it through his own eyes. She couldn’t, with straight words, let him go. But she could help him to seeing; she could let him alone. She turned to go on, but Cissy had assured herself, through her peep-hole, of the identity of the person she sought. “There’s dear Julia,” she tinkled. “I haven’t seen her this morning. I must—I really must speak to her!” She made a preliminary movement toward an opening in the fennel, her skirts held high above her pretty, preposterous shoes. “Oh, _would_ you?” Something in the tone made Cissy feel ridiculous. She hesitated, hating to meet the other woman’s look. She raised her voice. “I’m sure I don’t see why not!” [Illustration: “_Her skirts held high above her pretty, preposterous shoes_”] Florence saw Longacre turn as Cissy flounced through the hedge; then she went quickly up the path without looking back. Her eyes took in the sudden flight of a linnet out of a cypress bough, the flickering shadows of the fennel blurring the walk, and the white glass-room door at the end. Her ears heard a hurrying tread behind her. She felt the urge of pursuit, a keen joy that he still would, though he should not! Her whiteness flickered among the shadows as she fled; and he followed. He caught her in the sun, at the door of the glass room. “Oh, you!” he said, a little breathless, and laughing up at her from the steps below. She looked at him silently, still of a mind for flight, her hand on the door. It opened suddenly inward, and presented them, face to face, with Holden, who stood, hands jammed into the bulging pockets of his old shooting-coat. “You folks don’t care much for your complexions, out there in the hot sun,” he said. But he looked at Florence. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER VII THE HOUSE-PARTY IN THE STORM