He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. CHAPTER XXIV. The turning of the key startled her, but she did not see how she could make an objection. ‘I don’t want a hue and cry after me, I thank you. This salute of his—actually the first she could remember—while it did not disturb her, began to lead her thoughts into new channels of speculation.
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