It is not for me to say what answer to that speech she looked to receive. Mine was no more than a repetition of my bow.
"You'll keep the commission, Simon?" she whispered, standing on tiptoe, as though she would reach my ear.
"I can't," said I, bowing no more, and losing, I fear, the air of grave composure that I had striven to maintain. I saw what seemed a light of triumph in her eyes. Yet that mood passed quickly from her. She grew pensive and drew away from me. I stepped towards the door, but a hand laid on my arm arrested me.
"Simon," she asked, "have you sweet memories of Hatchstead?"
"God forgive me," said I confusedly, "sweeter than my hopes of heaven."
She looked at me gravely for an instant. Then, sighing, she said,
"Then I wish you had not come to town, but stayed there with your memories. They were of me?"
"Of Cydaria."
"Ah, of Cydaria," she echoed, with a little smile.