He spoke of the weather, of her father, of his aunt's messages.
Then the girl held out her hand.
"Good-bye," she said, looking away from him.
He held it for a second. "Good-bye, Miss Wishart," he said hoarsely.
Was this the consummation of his brief ecstasy, the end of months of
longing? The steel hand of fate was on him and he turned to leave.
He turned when he had gone three paces and came back. The girl was
still standing by the parapet, but she had averted her face towards the
wintry waters. His step seemed to fall on deaf ears, and he stood
beside her before she looked towards him.
Passion had broken down his awkwardness. He asked the old question with
a shaking voice. "Alice," he said, "have I vexed you?"
She turned to him a pale, distraught face, her eyes brimming over with
the sorrow of love, the passionate adventurous longing which claims true
hearts for ever.
He caught her in his arms, his heart in a glory of joy.
"Oh, Alice, darling," he cried. "What has happened to us? I love you,
I love you, and you have never given me a chance to say it."
She lay passive in his arms for one brief minute and then feebly drew
back.
"Sweetheart," he cried. "Sweetheart! For I will call you sweetheart,
though we never meet again. You are mine, Alice. We cannot help
ourselves."
The girl stood as in a trance, her eyes caught and held by his face.
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