The candor of her eyes was childlike.
“My little friend.” Odd felt that he could not quite trust himself, and took refuge in the convenient assertion.
The cold, clear wind blew against their faces; it ruffled the water, and the gray waves showed sharp steely lights. The leafless trees made an arabesque of tracery on the river and the sky. Hilda looked up at the kind, melancholy face beside her, a faint touch of cynicism in her sad smile; but the cynicism was all for herself, and it was not excessive. She accepted this renaissance gratefully, though the disillusions of the past were unforgettable.
“Tell me, Hilda, that you will be my friend whatever happens—to you or to me.”
“I have always been your friend, have I not?”
“Have you, Hilda, always?”
“I am dully faithful.” Hilda’s smile was a little baffling; it gave no warrant for the sudden quickening of the breath that he had experienced more than once of late.
“I feel as if I had found you, Hilda.”
“Did you look for me, then?”
The smile was now decidedly baffling and yet very sweet.