He must not, of course,
try to win Berenice; yet he was going to Mrs. Wilson's to meet her, to
be with her, to revel in the delicious pleasure of hoping, of fearing,
of loving.
The house of the Wilsons at Beverly Farms was on a bluff overlooking
the sea. It was reached by a long avenue winding through pines mingled
with birches and rowan trees; and stood in a clearing where all the day
and all the night the sound of the waves on the cliff answered the
whispering of the wind in the pine-tops. The broad piazzas of the house
looked out over the sea, and gave views of the islands off shore, the
ever-changing water, the beautiful curves of the sea marge, now high
with defiant rocks, and now falling into sandy beaches. A level lawn,
velvety and green, stretched from the house to the edge of the cliff,
with here and there a rustic seat or a century plant stiff and arrogant
in its lonely exile from warmer climes.
On this piazza Maurice found himself, just before dinner on the evening
of his arrival, walking up and down with Berenice. It was still cool
enough to make the exercise grateful.
"It is so delightful to have the weather warm enough to be out of doors
without being all bundled up," she said, looking over the sea, cold
green and gray in the declining light.
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