So thinking. I walked on in the direction of the Tudor garden. The
place was bathed in a sort of purple half-light, lending it a fairy air
of unreality, as though banished sun and rising moon yet disputed for
mastery over earth. This idea set me thinking of Colin Camber, of
Osiris, whom he had described as a black god, and of Isis, whose silver
disk now held undisputed sovereignty of the evening sky.
Resentment of the treatment which I had received at the Guest House
still burned hotly within me, but the mystery of it all had taken the
keen edge off my wrath, and I think a sort of melancholy was the
keynote of my reflections as, descending the steps to the sunken
garden, I saw Val Beverley, in a delicate blue gown, coming toward me.
She was the spirit of my dreams, and the embodiment of my mood. When
she lowered her eyes at my approach, I knew by virtue of a sort of
inspiration that she had been avoiding me.
"Miss Beverley," I said, "I have been looking for you all the
afternoon."
"Have you? I have been in my room writing letters."
I paced slowly along beside her.
"I wish you would be very frank with me," I said.
Pages:
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207