The thought of her husband gave her a feeling of uneasiness. She did not know how long it was since she had left the house; it might have been equally hours or minutes ago as far as she was concerned; George might return any moment and discover her here by the road in the darkness with Mr. Kennard, and of course he would never believe---- She said: "I think I had better go back." Yet still she lingered, captive to the magic of the night, and the heavy scent of blossoms mingling with the fumes of his cheroot; held, also, by the lurement of his presence, and a novel sense of high adventure. "You know you ought not to come out at night without a lantern," he told her. "It's just the time of year when snakes begin to lie about in the dust and are still half-torpid from the winter." "Then why did _you_ come out without a lantern?" she asked, picking up her skirts a little anxiously. At first he did not answer. Then he said: "Perhaps I'd better not explain." He paused. "After all," he added, "I don't see why I shouldn't tell you. The truth is I just felt I _must_ come and stand at your gate, and I forgot all about lanterns and snakes." "Why couldn't you have come over, lantern and all, after dinner for a chat?" She would not recognise his meaning, thrilled though she was by his homage. "I knew you were alone. Would it have been wise?" "Well, perhaps not," she agreed, "and it's also not wise for us to stay talking here in the dark with snakes all over the place; I must go in. Good-night, Mr. Kennard." He held her hand. "You'll keep me some dances to-morrow night, won't you? I'm one of your hosts, remember. Promise you won't disappoint me?" "Of course not," she promised him gently, withdrawing her hand. He hesitated. "I think I'll just see you as far as the steps of the veranda. I should feel more comfortable. I can go back by the gap in the boundary--where it's broken, you know." She knew. He had often come over that way in the daytime. They strolled to the veranda steps in silence; then again they said "Good-night," and Kennard vanished swiftly in the darkness. "Won't you borrow one of our lanterns?" she called after him, remembering with horror the danger of snakes. There came no answer, for at that moment Rafella's husband drove in at the gate. "Were you calling to someone?" he inquired, with surly suspicion, as he joined her in the veranda. For the first time in her life Rafella told a deliberate lie. "No," she said, her heart fluttering painfully with fear and shame. "I had only just come out to listen for the trap." CHAPTER VI THE BACHELORS' BALL