(“Did he want to see her? Did he want to see his queen, his star, his goddess?”) Should he give Belle a hint?—No.
“Yes, I should like to wish her good-bye.”
“She is probably in the garden making herself ill with fruit!” said her cousin ill-naturedly.
“Oh, you must not go just yet” (seeing that he was about to rise), biting her lips to retain her composure, “you will not forget us—and you will write often, will you not?” she added desperately; her eyes fixed anxiously on his.
“Yes, I shall certainly write; it is very good of you to wish for my letters.”
“They will be my only happiness,” was her most embarrassing reply; “you won’t forget me, will you, George?” she whispered. George rose hastily, this conference was too personal to be pleasant; this pretty little woman, with the tragic dark eyes, was becoming a nuisance.
“I hate saying good-bye,” holding out his hand as he spoke. “But I must be making a start, my train goes at five o’clock, and I have not much time to lose.”
“Oh, you have an hour still; it won’t take you more than half that time to get to the station,” she pleaded in a strangled voice.
(Yes, quite true, but he had yet to see Betty, and every moment was priceless.)
“I must really go,” he said firmly, “I have business at Bridgetstown.”