"Perhaps she would n't have me, Hero."
A low incredulous whistle was the only response to this remark.
"Besides, I can't afford to marry yet," Philip added. His pulses were beating at an absurd rate, and his face was bright with a light which was not reflected from the moon, a light of hope which shone through his deep gray eyes. The coarse-featured, clumsy creature beside him understood that look, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other uneasily.
"Marse Philip, you gwine to marry that young lady," he said at last, "and me and my wife 's a gwine to wait on yer. She 's good for wuk; she 's lazed long enuff, I tell her. She 's smart, she is. We could keep you bof comfortable like; and 'bout the wages, why yer know, Marse Philip, yer 've paid me mor 'n I 'se worth for ten years, twice mor 'n, 'nd yer need n't think nothin' about that."
There was a moment's silence, and then Philip coughed very suddenly and relit his cigar.
"Thank you, Hero," he said when the spark was fairly kindled; "thank you kindly, and good night."
The light had vanished from the corner window now, and with it the shadow of that lithe young figure,—a shadow which mixed itself wilfully all that night with Philip Rondelet's dreams.
