In his hand he held a slip of paper which he read and reread.
There was a mixture of joy and puzzlement in his eyes. Diane. It had
a pleasant sound; what had she to say that necessitated this odd
trysting place? He glanced at the writing again. Evidently she had
written it in a hurry. What, indeed, had she to say? They had scarce
exchanged a word since the day in the hills when he told her that she
was not honest.
A leaf drifted lazily down from the overhanging oak, and another and
still another; and he listened. There was in the air the ghostly
perfume of summer; and he breathed. He was still young. Sorrow had
aged his thought, not his blood; and he loved this woman with his whole
being, dishonest though she might be. He carried the note to his lips.
She would be here at four. What she had to tell him must be told here,
not at the settlement. There was the woman and the caprice. Strange
that she had written when early that morning it had been simple to
speak. And the Indian who had given him the note knew nothing.
He entered the hut and looked carelessly around. A rude table stood at
one side.
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