She didn’t talk at first, but he didn’t find anything to complain of in that. It was blissful enough just to swing along silently at her side. He didn’t have to bother about the truth-proposition when she didn’t say anything. He could yield to a quiet unadulterated joy in the stillness. If denied, temporarily, the music of her voice, he was, at least, privileged to visualize her, as she walked along the narrow path with the freedom and grace of a young goddess, or one of Diana’s lithe forest attendants. The vision, at length, stopped at the verge of a terrace where stood an Italian-looking little summer-house, or shelter. No one was in it, and she entered. They wouldn’t be disturbed here. She leaned on a marble balustrade and for a moment looked down upon the shadowy tree-tops. The moonlight glinted a rounded white arm. Bob breathed deep. It was a spot for lovers. But there was still no love-light in Miss Gerald’s eyes. They met the gaze of Bob, who hadn’t yet come out of that paradoxical trance, with cold contemplation. “Do you know what people are beginning to say about you, Mr. Bennett?” began the vision, with considerable decision in her tones. “No,” said Bob. “Some of them are wondering—well, if you are mentally quite all right.” “Are they?” It was more the silvery sound of her voice than what people were saying that interested Bob. “The judge and Mrs. Vanderpool have agreed that you aren’t. People are a little divided in the matter.” “Indeed?” observed Bob. Of course if people were “divided,” that would make it more interesting for them. Give them something to talk about! “The doctor agrees with the judge and Mrs. Vanderpool, but the bishop seems inclined to give you the benefit of the doubt,” went on Miss Gerald, her silvery tones as tranquil and cold as moonlight on the still surface of an inland sea. “He said something about inherited eccentricities, probably just beginning to crop out. Or suggested it might be—well, a pose.” “Very nice of the bishop!” muttered Bob. “Benefit of the doubt? Quite so! Fine old chap!” “Is that all you have to say?” said Miss Gerald, a faint note of scorn in her voice now. As she spoke she leaned slightly toward him. The moonlight touched the golden hair. “Maybe he felt he had to differ,” remarked Bob, intent on the golden hair (it wasn’t golden out here, of course) and the stars beyond. “He might not really differ at heart, but he had to seem broad and charitable. Ecclesiastical obligation, or habit, don’t you see!” “I don’t quite see,” said the girl, though her bright eyes looked capable of seeing a great deal. “No?” murmured Bob. Some of that paradoxical happiness seemed to be fading from him. He couldn’t hold it; it seemed as elusive as moonshine. If only she would stand there silently and let him continue to worship her, like that devout lover in the song—in “distant reverence.” It wasn’t surely quite consistent for a goddess to be so practical and matter-of-fact.