My heart was in my throat. I could not speak. We watched one another; as the silence lengthened, the space between us seemed impassable. She held out her arms; her hoarse voice spoke, yearning towards me with its lazy sweetness. “Even now, if you want to, you may go, Dannie.” CHAPTER X--THE FRUIT OF THE GARDEN I had been for a saunter through the town. Several times I had returned before I found Fiesole beneath the fig-tree in the courtyard, seated at the table with a paper spread out in front of her. She looked up swiftly at sound of my footstep and threw me a smile, gathering herself in to make room for me beside her. When I stood over her, she lifted up her face with childish eagerness as though we had not kissed already more than once that morning. “Shall I order déjeuner out here?” She nodded. “Where else, but in the sunshine?” When I came back from giving the order, her red-gold head was bent again above the paper. “Something interesting?” “Rather.” She raised her green eyes mischievously. “It’s all up. We’ll be collared within the hour.” “What’s all up? Who’s got the right to collar us?” “Paris thinks it has, the whole of France thinks it has, but most particularly Monsieur Georges thinks he has, and so does the theatre-management.” “Let ’em try. We don’t care.” “But, old boy, I do care a little. You see, I shouldn’t have been here now if it hadn’t been for Monsieur Georges, Paris, and the rest of them. They gave me my chance; going off like this has left them in the lurch. It isn’t playing the game, as I understand it.” “If it’s damages for a broken contract they’re after, I’ll settle that for you.” She smiled mysteriously and, bowing her head above the paper, read me extracts, throwing in, now and then, her own vivacious comments. It appeared that up to the last moment the theatre-management had expected her and had allowed the audience to assemble. They had delayed matters for half an hour while they sent out messengers to search for her. When the crowd grew restless, they had commenced the performance with an under-study. But the people would have none of her; they rose up in their places stamping and threatening, shouting for _La Fiesole_. The curtain had been rung down and Monsieur Georges had come forward, weeping and wringing his hands, saying that _La Fiesole_ had been kidnaped by an admirer that morning. Pandemonium broke loose. The theatre for a time was in danger of being wrecked; but the police were summoned and got the audience out, and the money refunded. The journalist’s story followed of the unknown Englishman who, a few nights before, had stood up in his box applauding when everyone else had grown silent; and how the same Englishman, one night previously, had created a scene between himself and _La Fiesole_ at a café in the Champs Elysées--a scene which had terminated by them going away together.