I moved out from the shadow of the boxwood, its eerie rustle and faint nostalgic perfume full of a thousand memories, started toward the back porch, and stopped. Mr. Keane had stopped too, and was standing, looking up at the door. Even in the pale white light I could see the indecision on his face as he took a step up, and backed down again . . . trying, I knew, to get up courage enough to see Miz’ Winthrop. I turned back and wandered slowly down the lawn toward the river. At the end, where a stone balustrade covered with starry cypress vine marked the bank, I saw a white figure sitting, looking out over the placid moonlit water, the white smoke of a cigar rising like a spirit picture about his head.
For a moment I thought it might be Dan. Then I realized, from the altogether too expensiv
