The House of the Falcon
Edith perched herself on the stone railing of the balcony and gave herself up to the grateful flood of sunlight and the survey of her new surroundings.
Even now she felt that she was watched.
Coming from the long isolation of the sick room, she felt as if she had reëntered life itself. A new life, tranquil, yet vitally significant. Srinagar and Quebec and Louisville were not a part of this world. Her father and her aunt were incredibly distant She tried to think of the place of the lotus-eaters, the poem of Tennyson
"What is the verdict?"
Edith looked up, and was surprised to see Donovan, supported by Aravang. Over his free arm the grinning servant carried a plaid steamer rug and a takedown armchair. She did not know Donovan at first.
During her absence he had managed to have himself shaved, and his disordered hair trimmed. A clean white shirt, a neat flannel jacket and white flannel trousers completed the metamorphosis. His mustache was altered into almost military smartness, and the growth of beard was gone. Only the blue eyes and the lean brown cheeks were the same.
"Oh," cried Edith, "you shouldn't be outdoors. You will take cold."
Donovan smiled, or rather the lines in his cheeks deepened and the wrinkles about his eyes crept into being. "Really? I'm quite accustomed to—outdoors. Besides, I've had a cold bath."
She recalled his first speech, and clapped her hands.
"Bravo! The verdict is: excellent. How did you do it?"
"Do what? Oh." Donovan sank into the camp
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