He heard Dona Anna's arch accents--arch even to Colonel Pendleton's monotonous baritone!--Milly's high, rapid utterances, the suave falsetto of Don Caesar, and HER voice, he thought a trifle wearied,--the sound of retiring footsteps, and all was still again.
So still that the rhythmic beat of the distant waltz returned to him, with a distinctiveness that he could idly follow.

He thought of Rosario and the rose-breath of the open windows with a strange longing, and remembered the half-stifled sweetness of her happy voice rising with it from the veranda.

Why had he ever let it pass from him then and waft its fragrance elsewhere?
Why-- What was that?
The slight turning of a latch! The creaking of the French window of the salon, and somebody had slipped softly half out on the balcony.
His heart stopped beating.

From his position in the recess of his own window, with his back to the partition of the salon, he could see nothing.

Yet he did not dare to move.