Yet still Dick Maurice!—the man who was becoming so much to her!— the man by whom she could be sure she was beloved! Her eyes fell upon the strong, finely-formed brown hand, clutching his stick, the hand which had drawn her attention when first they met as strangers; and a wave of tenderness rolled through her. How hard it was for him!
"I meant to take you to the Lac des Chavonnes. It is part of the show. Perhaps you'd rather not—now."
His face was wistful; and a reckless fit carried her away. Everything was different, she told herself. This might be their last, their very last, walk together. Why cut it short? Why not make the most of it? He had been so brave, so good, speaking out the distasteful truth! This one little treat, surely, she might allow—whether to him or to herself, she did not mentally specify.
Nor did she pause to consider whether it was wise—whether, for his sake, if everything now would be different, she ought not at once to end their intercourse? The wish assailed her powerfully, and she gave in to it.
"I suppose I ought just to see the lake. It is not far off, is it?"
"Not half-an-hour's walk from Bretaye."
His face brightened, and they went at a rapid pace down the steep grass-slope, each trying to put aside the prevailing thought, and to chat lightly. If Doris succeeded, Maurice did not.
Reaching the small blue-grey piece of water, with its framework of jagged rocks and slender pines, they climbed to a shady spot, and sat long in silence, which neither was in haste to interrupt. Upon each stole a strong consciousness that, shared with the other, life offered the best that it had to give, little besides being essential for happiness. But, while this consciousness pervaded the whole being of the man, dominating his every faculty, it rested rather as a ray of brightness upon the surface of the girl's mind; not less genuine, but less deep.