“Perhaps—soon. I don’t know.”
“I must see you again. I will see you once more, whatever comes.”
“Once more, perhaps. I hope so, but—”
“After that—”
“Who knows?”
“Once more—once more!” The words echoed in Virginia’s ears. She heard them through everything, as one hears the undertone of a mountain torrent, though a brass band may bray to drown its deep music.
Once more he would see her, whatever might come. She could guess why it might be only once, though he would fain have that once again and again repeated. For this game of hers, begun with such a light heart, was more difficult to play than she had dreamed.
If she could but be sure he cared; if he would tell her so, in words, and not with eyes alone, the rest might be easy, although at best she could not see the end. Yet how, in honor, could he tell Miss Helen Mowbray that he cared? And if the telling were not to be in honor, how could she bear to live her life?
“Once more!” What would happen in that “once more?” Perhaps nothing save a repetition of grateful thanks, and courteous words akin to a farewell.