At eight that evening accordingly, Swithin entered like a spectre upon
the terrace to seek out the spot she had designated. The equatorial had
so entirely absorbed his thoughts that he did not trouble himself
seriously to conjecture the why and wherefore of her secrecy. If he
casually thought of it, he set it down in a general way to an intensely
generous wish on her part not to lessen his influence among the poorer
inhabitants by making him appear the object of patronage.

While he stood by the long snowdrop bed, which looked up at him like a
nether Milky Way, the French casement of the window opposite softly
opened, and a hand bordered by a glimmer of lace was stretched forth,
from which he received a crisp little parcel,--bank-notes, apparently.

He knew the hand, and held it long enough to press it to his lips, the only
form which had ever occurred to him of expressing his gratitude to her
without the incumbrance of clumsy words, a vehicle at the best of times
but rudely suited to such delicate merchandise. The hand was hastily
withdrawn, as if the treatment had been unexpected. Then seemingly moved
by second thoughts she bent forward and said, 'Is the night good for
observations?' 'Perfect.' She paused. 'Then I'll come to-night,' she at last said. 'It makes no
difference to me, after all. Wait just one moment.' He waited, and she presently emerged, muffled up like a nun; whereupon they left the terrace and struck across the park together.