one at all. I don't believe he knows how to shoot his arrows—no indeed, he is a coward;—he creeps up like an assassin in the twilight, I don’t approve of cowardice,” she announced, and turned her back on the statue.
“I think,” said Hastings quietly, “that he does shoot fairly—yes, and even gives one warning.”
“Is it your experience, Monsieur Hastings?”
He looked straight into her eyes and said, “He is warning me.”
“Heed the warning then,” she cried, with a nervous laugh. As she spoke she stripped off her gloves, and then carefully proceeded to draw them on again. When this was accomplished she glanced at the Palace clock, saying, “Oh, dear, how late it is!” furled her umbrella then unfurled it, and finally looked at him.
“No,” he said, “I shall not heed his warning.”
“Oh, dear,” she sighed again, “still talking about that tiresome statue!” Then stealing a glance at his face, “I suppose—I suppose you are in love.”
“I don’t know,” he muttered, “I suppose I am.”
She raised her head with a quick gesture. “You seem delighted at the idea,” she said, but bit her lip and trembled as his eyes met hers. Then sudden fear came over her and she sprang up, staring into the gathering shadows.
“Are you cold?” he said, but she only answered, “Oh, dear, oh, dear, it is late—so late, I must go—good-night.”
She gave him her gloved hand a moment and then withdrew it with a start.
