He went bareheaded into the cool air, across the lawn, springy under his feet, down the path among the trees where the white sand lay heavy, on to the shore. There was Margaret, near the waves’ edge. He approached her, and, because she was so still, touched the billowing muslin she wore.
“You know?”
“Yes. John, how happy you must be! Always you’ll remember to-day. It’s your hour—one of the three or four. They go by so soon.”
“And you? Are you not happy?... You are free, too.” He faltered as he spoke of this, of which she had never spoken.
She shivered, as if a cold breeze had struck her.
“Yes.... I understand.... I, too, am free. I know.”
She turned to him eyes full of light.
“Oh, Margaret,” he cried, his arms outstretched, “don’t look towards the future. To-day’s enough, Margaret. What is it you are afraid of?”
She said, trembling under his touch, close to him so that her dress brushed lightly against his coat, “What is it we’re both afraid of? We are both afraid.”