left. Other people, perhaps, but not she. It wasn’t possible to think that Beryl Fairfield never married, that lovely fascinating girl.
“Do you remember Beryl Fairfield?”
“Remember her! As if I could forget her! It was one summer at the Bay that I saw her. She was standing on the beach in a blue”—no, pink—“muslin frock, holding on a big cream”—no, black—“straw hat. But it’s years ago now.”
“She’s as lovely as ever, more so if anything.”
Beryl smiled, bit her lip, and gazed over the garden. As she gazed, she saw somebody, a man, leave the road, step along the paddock beside their palings as if he was coming straight towards her. Her heart beat. Who was it? Who could it be? It couldn’t be a burglar, certainly not a burglar, for he was smoking and he strolled lightly. Beryl’s heart leapt; it seemed to turn right over, and then to stop. She recognized him.
“Good evening. Miss Beryl,” said the voice softly.
“Good evening.”
“Won’t you come for a little walk?” it drawled.
Come for a walk—at that time of night! “I couldn’t. Everybody’s in bed. Everybody’s asleep.”
