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 rabble and would know nothing. She could not approach him as she had so readily and simply approached the others. She must, she was aware, be more wary, await her opportunity, but this prospect, on reflection, did not altogether displease her. This experience would be novel, and the pleasure she would take in the foreseen outcome would give every second of the pursuit a kind of thrill, a ruddy, amorous glow.

She had, she remembered, managed to stammer out an invitation to call. Would he heed her request? Why, she wondered, had she not met him before? To what circle of local society could he belong? Had she, in these provincial eyes, broken another law? When she had asked him to come to see her she had noted amazement in Lou's expression, something a trifle stronger, perhaps, in Mayme Townsend's. Who was this youth? Why had she never encountered him before? Who were his father and mother? Johns? Had she met a Mrs. Johns? She could not recall the name.

The Countess peered out upon the lawn, silver and green in the moonlight. If only he might realize that she was waiting, the blood tingling in her veins, her heart pulsing, waiting like Juliet for him to appear in the orchard below. Gareth! she whispered softly. Gareth! she called more loudly, as loudly as she dared call, leaning far over the casement. There was no reply. A faint odour of honeysuckles was wafted to her nostrils; far in the