He rose at once, turned, and took the path that Deb's brown finger indicated.

Had he been another man, had he been, perhaps, Ludwell Cary, he might not have gone.

But he was Lewis Rand, the product and effect of causes inherited and self-planted, and his passion, rising suddenly, mastered him with a giant's grip.

The only voice that he heard was the giant's urgent cry, and he went without protest.
The summer-house was a small, latticed place, overgrown with the Seven Sisters rose, and set in a breast-high ring of box opening here and there to the garden paths.

A tulip tree towered above the gravel space before it, and two steps led to a floor chequered with light and shade, and to a rustic chair and table.