“Why? Are you ashamed for me to hear what any strolling stranger, any unscrupulous vagabond, might have listened to?”
“It is such a desolate, lonely place, I thought no one would stumble upon me, and I have been there so often without meeting a living thing except the crabs and plover.”
“You are no longer a child, and such rashness is altogether unpardonable. What do you suppose my sister would think of your imprudent obstinacy?”
They walked another mile, and again Salome convulsively pressed the cool, steady, strong hand, in which hers lay hot and quivering.
“Dr. Grey, tell me the truth,—don’t torture me.”
“What shall I tell you? You torture yourself.”
“Did you hear what I was saying to my own heart?”
“I heard you repeating some lines which certainly should possess no relevancy for the real feeling of my young friend.”
She snatched her fingers from his, and he knew she covered her face with them.