"The game's up, thanks to my inspired
lunacy! But I'm going to trust you not to say that you've seen me. I
know about the lacquer chest because I always kept my marbles there."
"Are you--are you Stephen Fane?"
At the awed whisper the man bowed low, all mocking grace, his hand on
his heart--the sun burnishing his tawny head.
"Oh-h!" breathed Daphne. She bent to pick up the wicker basket, her
small face white and hard.
"Wait!" said Stephen Fane. His face was white and hard too. "You are
right to go--entirely, absolutely right--but I am going to beg you to
stay. I don't know what you've heard about me--however vile it is, it's
less than the truth--"
"I have heard nothing of you," said Daphne, holding her gold-wreathed
head high, "but five years ago I was not allowed to come to Green
Gardens for weeks because I mentioned your name. I was told that it was
not a name to pass decent lips."
Something terrible leaped in those burned-out eyes--and died.
"I had not thought they would use their hate to lash a child," he said.
"They were quite right--and you, too. Good night."
"Good night," replied Daphne clearly. She started down the path, but at
its bend she turned to look back--because she was seventeen, and it was
June, and she remembered his laughter.
Pages:
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385