On the road-side facing the gateway stood one of the open sheds in which the New Englander shelters his farming implements and visitors “hitch” their “teams.” Archer, jumping down, led his pair into the shed, and after tying them to a post turned toward the house. The patch of lawn before it had relapsed into a hay- field; but to the left an overgrown box-garden full of dahlias and rusty rose-bushes encircled a ghostly summer- house of trellis-work that had once been white, surmounted by a wooden Cupid who had lost his bow and arrow but continued to take ineffectual aim.

Archer leaned for a while against the gate. No one was in sight, and not a sound came from the open windows of the house: a grizzled Newfoundland dozing before the door seemed as ineffectual a guardian as the arrowless Cupid. It was strange to think that this place of silence and decay was the home of the turbulent Blenkers; yet Archer was sure that he was not mistaken.

For a long time he stood there, content to take in the scene, and gradually falling under its drowsy spell; but at length he roused himself to the sense of the passing time. Should he look his fill and then drive away? He stood irresolute, wishing suddenly to see the inside of the house, so that he might picture the room that Madame Olenska sat in. There was nothing to prevent his walking up to the door and ringing the bell; if, as he supposed, she was away with the rest of the party, he could easily give his name, and ask permission to go into the sitting-room to write a message.

But instead, he crossed the lawn and turned toward the box-garden. As he entered it he caught sight of something bright-coloured in the summer-house, and presently made it out to be a pink parasol. The parasol drew him like a magnet: he was sure it was hers. He went into the summer-house, and sitting down on the rickety seat picked up the silken thing and looked at its carved handle, which was made of some rare wood that gave out an aromatic scent. Archer lifted the handle to his lips.

He heard a rustle of skirts against the box, and sat motionless, leaning on the parasol handle with clasped hands, and letting the rustle come nearer without lifting his eyes. He had always known that this must happen …

Newland’s back was to the Countess as she slowly approached him. He had caught a glimpse of her through the reflection in his timepiece before he closed it and placed it into his pocket. He neither glanced over his shoulder, nor spoke, but waited, hoping to feel her touch.

She could easily have turned away from him just as he had when she waited by the water. And perhaps he deserved her disdain, but he still prayed that she would come to him. His heart began to pound as he anticipated the sound of her voice. A moment later, he felt her hand on his back. The touch was gentle, familiar, and comforting. Her slender fingers traveled down the length of his spine. She stopped at his waist, circled her arm around to his stomach, and stepped closer to him, pressing her body against his. Then she wrapped her other arm around him so that she clung to him.