Off there to
the west, with Aunt Agatha fussing at his heels, Philip was
good-naturedly gathering the lilies at the water's edge. And some one
was approaching camp from the northern road.
Diane glanced carelessly to the north and sprang to her feet with wild
scarlet in her cheeks.
Ronador was coming through the forest.
His color was a little high, his eyes, beneath the peak of his motoring
cap profoundly apologetic, but he was easier in manner than Diane.
"I'm offending, I know," he said steadily, "and I crave forgiveness,
but muster an indifferent gift of patience as best I may, I can not
wait. It is weeks, you recall--"
Diane flushed brightly.
"Yes," she said. "I know. I have been in the Everglades."
"Your aunt told me." Ronador searched her face suddenly with peculiar
intentness. He might have added, with perfect truth, that to Aunt
Agatha, who had indiscreetly afforded him a glimpse of her niece's
letter, might be attributed the halting of the long, black car on the
road to the north. "You have no single word of welcome, then!" he
reproached abruptly and impatiently brushed his hair back from his
forehead with a hand that shook a little.
From the north came the clatter of a motorcycle.
Diane held out her hand.
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