And then at the street corner she came face to face with Nigel Ennison. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. He was tender with her as he had not been in years. He had not proceeded far when he was alarmed by the tramp of a horse, which seemed to be rapidly approaching, and he had scarcely time to leap the hedge and conceal himself behind a tree, when a tall man, enveloped in an ample cloak, with his hat pulled over his brows, rode by at full speed. He waved an arm and spoke with a peculiar resonance. Without a word, without a sign, Enschede started toward the beach, where his proa waited. “We will do Paris like the tourists, and thank God here comes dinner. And probably the girl would wear herself out, too.
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