More swiftly than the space of the inspiration of a single breath an idea springs, fixes, spreads within him. It is determination of all his thought of her in their advancing stages: it is swiftest look from that vacant corner in the room of his life to Essie, always so jolly, always so good, ah, so pretty, yielding in his arms. Swift as a single breath it is. Why should not Essie fill that vacant place?
"What, are you fond of me, Arthur?"
Deep in his sudden thought he does not answer her. What sees she responsive to her question in his eyes? She sees that which makes her leave his grasp.
In her eyes he sees sudden moisture shining.
Deep in the sudden thought that has him—bemused as one that, in earnest conversation with a friend, turns bemusedly to address a remark to another, he says: "Hulloa, you're not crying, Essie?"
"Likely!" says Essie, blinking.
"You are, though. What's up?"
"That's the sun in my eyes."
"There's precious little sun."
Essie dabs her eyes with her handkerchief and gives a little sniff. "Well, there's precious little tears."