“Oh,” said the voice lightly, and a whiff of sweet smoke reached her. “What does everybody matter? Do come! It’s such a fine night. There’s not a soul about.”
Beryl shook her head. But already something stirred in her, something reared its head.
The voice said, “Frightened?” It mocked, “Poor little girl!”
“Not in the least,” said she. As she spoke that weak thing within her seemed to uncoil, to grow suddenly tremendously strong; she longed to go!
And just as if this was quite understood by the other, the voice said, gently and softly, but finally, “Come along!”
Beryl stepped over her low window, crossed the veranda, ran down the grass to the gate. He was there before her.
“That’s right,” breathed the voice, and it teased, “You’re not frightened, are you? You’re not frightened?”
She was; now she was here she was terrified, and it seemed to her everything was different. The moonlight stared and glittered; the shadows were like bars of iron. Her hand was taken.
“Not in the least,” she said lightly. “Why should I be?”
Her hand was pulled gently, tugged. She held back.
