The moonlight fell softly on Prudence's bright hair, touching the curls lovingly with a wan brilliance that, paling their shining gold, added a purer sheen to replace the beauty stolen by the night. Its light was reflected in the blue depths of her eyes, eyes which took on the misty darkness of the night sky so that the moonbeams felt at home therein and lingered there confidingly. She leaned far out of the window, and the fragrance of some early gloire de Dijon roses was wafted towards her on the night breeze. A scent besides that of the roses stole up to her out of the shadows--the scent of cigarette smoke, too close under her window to suggest that the smoker was beyond the wall that shut off the garden from the road. Prudence had watched the smoker enter the garden; she watched him now throw away his cigarette among the flowers in one of the borders as he advanced, and she heard his voice speaking softly to her out of the gloom. "Can't you come down?" he asked. "Not unless you have come provided with a rope ladder," she replied as softly. "By Jove! I never thought of that. But you aren't locked in?" "Not in the sense you mean. But locked doors would be trifles compared with the opposition I should encounter if I attempted to join you. I'd love to come out; but it's impossible." "Is there any likelihood of our being overheard?" he asked with caution. Prudence laughed quietly. "Every likelihood," she answered. "I don't think I mind." Steele stood under cover of the wall of the house. There were no lights in the windows on that side; he had observed that on former occasions; the library, where Mr Graynor sat every evening with William, faced the other way. "Then I'm going to run the risk and stay and talk with you," he said. There was a strange intimacy in the situation that appealed to Prudence. The adventure of the morning was as nothing compared with this stolen interview. The insufficient light of the moon, and the distance which divided them, added a touch of romance which she found pleasantly exciting. To gaze down upon his upturned face and the uncertain outline of his form below stirred her imagination; and the necessity for caution, occasioning them to lower their voices to whispers, gave to the utterance of the most trivial speech the flavour of intimate things. She leaned down nearer to him. "It's rather like Romeo and Juliet, isn't it?" she said. "That ended rottenly," he replied, and laughed. "So will this probably. What made you venture inside?" "Isn't the reason obvious?" he returned. "I thought I had prepared you for my visit at tea. It wasn't possible for us to say good-bye like that. I'm sorry I got you into that mess." "You didn't," Prudence assured him gently. "I knew how it would be. I'm not regretting--anything. Stinging nettles cease to hurt when the rash subsides. William is furious. We don't speak." "That must be rather a relief for you." She dimpled suddenly.