"If only you can sometimes think of me. You will understand then and think again perhaps, and know all my life is changed, and know that everything I do I shall do for you. I'll not see you again. I'll not be here when you come back."
At that he felt her fingers move within his hands.
"I cannot stay here now—now that I love you. I shall go."
He felt her tremble, and she breathed: "Oh, why? Oh, where?"
"How could I face you again and still be idling here? I don't know where, Dora. I only know why—because I love you so. Anywhere, anything to get me something that will give you to me!"
She whispered "Percival!" and stopped as though she had not strength for more. And he breathed "Dora!" as though he knew what she would say and by intensity of love would draw it from her.
She slowly drew her hands from his. She took them to her breast, and faltered again—again as she were wounded, afraid, struck, threatened, atremble at some fearful brink, robbed of some vital virtue: "Oh, Percival!" and caught her breath and said "Oh, Percival, what is it—this?"
"It is love!" he cried. "Dora, it is love!"
She gave a little sigh; she unclasped her hands; seemed to relax in all her spirit; suffered her hands, like cold white flowers floating earthwards, lovewards to float to his.
"Tell me!" he breathed.