Every one turned their heads.

A little further back in the woods, a nightingale had commenced to sing.
"You are tired," Maraton whispered.
She shook her head.

The strained, anxious look was still in her face.
"No," she replied in a low tone, "I am not tired." "There is something the matter," he insisted, "something, I am sure.
Won't you sit down, and may I not order some refreshment for you?
The people here are very hospitable." Her gesture of dissent was almost peremptory.
"No!" The monosyllable had a sting which surprised him.
"Tell me what it is ?" he begged.
She opened her lips and closed them again.

He saw then the rising and falling of her bosom underneath that black stuff gown.

She stretched out her hand towards the gardens.