"Let's sit down," said Rantoul, as though suffocating.
They placed themselves in wicker easy-chairs, under the heavy-scented
rose cupola, disdaining the coffee that waited on a table. From where
they were a red-tiled walk, with flower beds nodding in enchanted sleep,
ran to the veranda. The porch windows were open, and in the golden
lamplight Herkimer saw the figure of Tina Glover bent intently over an
embroidery, drawing her needle with uneven stitches, her head seeming
inclined to catch the faintest sound. The waiting, nervous pose, the
slender figure on guard, brought to him a strange, almost uncanny
sensation of mystery, and feeling the sudden change in the mood of the
man at his side, he gazed at the figure of the wife and said to himself:
[Illustration: Our Lady of the Sparrows]
"I'd give a good deal to know what's passing through that little head.
What is she afraid of?"
"You're surprised to find me as I am," said Rantoul, abruptly breaking
the silence.
"Yes."
"You can't understand it?"
"When did you give up painting?" said Herkimer, shortly, with a sure
feeling that the hour of confidences had come.
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