“Oh, it’s silly! I was only a little girl then. What does it matter what I thought? As a matter of fact,” and she flung out the end of her confession carelessly, as though it meant nothing, “as a matter of fact, I thought you were the most wonderful boy I’d ever seen.” And she tried to laugh a natural, off-hand laugh that would make an end of this absurd situation, but the laugh caught in her throat, and she went suddenly still, her eyes fixed on Roland’s. They looked at each other and read fear in the other’s eyes, but in Roland’s eyes fear was mingled with a desperate entreaty, a need, an overmastering need of her. His tongue seemed too big for his mouth, and when at last he spoke, his voice was dry.
“And what do you think of me now?”
She could say nothing. She stood still, held by the gray eyes that never wavered.
“What do you think of me now?” he repeated.
She made a movement to break the tension, a swift gesture with her hand that was intended for a dismissal, but he was standing so close that her hand brushed against him; she gave a little gasp as his hand closed over it and held it.
“You won’t tell me,” he said. “But shall I tell you what I thought of you then? Shall I tell you? I thought you were the prettiest girl I had ever seen, and I thought how beautiful you would be when you grew up.”
“Oh, don’t be so silly, Roland,” and she laughed a short, nervous laugh, and tried to draw her hand from his, but he held it firmly, and drew her a little nearer to him, so that he could take her other hand in his. They stood close together, then she raised her face slowly to his and the puzzled, wistful, trusting expression released the flood of sentiment that had been surging within him all the afternoon. His misery was no longer master of itself, and her beauty drew to it the mingled tenderness, hesitation, disappointment of his vexed spirit. She was for him in that moment the composite vision of all he prized most highly in life, of romance, mystery, adventure.
His hands closed upon hers tightly, desperately, as though he would rivet himself to the one thing of which he could be certain, and his confused intense emotion poured forth in a stream of eager avowal:
“But I never thought, Muriel, that you would be anything like what you are; you are wonderful, Muriel; I’ve been realizing it slowly every day. I’ve said to myself that we were only friends, just friends, but I’ve known it was more than friendship. I’ve told myself not to be silly, that you could never care for me—well, I’ve never realized, not properly, not till this afternoon, Muriel.”
She was no longer frightened; his words had soothed her, caressed her, wooed her; and when he paused, the expression of her eyes was fearless.