He groaned. There are really lovely walks in the country, he suggested.
The very thing. Come for me tomorrow at eleven. We could drive . . . she considered . . . No, tomorrow, I think I'd rather walk.
After they had talked a little longer, he rose. I must go, he said.
Good-night, Gareth. Remember: demain a onze heures.
What was that?
She laughed. Tomorrow at eleven.
I'll be here.
Friends and allies!
Friends and allies!
For ever!
For ever!
He clasped her hand and walked down the steps. Standing by the railing, she watched him until his retreating figure was shut from her view. A heayenly odour was borne in on the night air. Fireflies gleamed intermittently in the vines. The moon was rising. The Countess hummed the Clair de lune from Werther softly to herself. Then, entering the house, absent-mindedly she altered this to, My Bonnie lies over the . . . swiftly she interrupted herself. He doesn't! she cried. He doesn't! He doesn't! she repeated as she ascended the staircase. Then, in a tone which added a consecration to the phrase she murmured: Io t'amo, Gareth! Io t'amo! Io t'amo . . . mon petit chou!
