"And I think," he responded gravely, "we've done that."
"It wasn't an easy road," she told him, and then as suddenly as an April sun may break dartingly through rainclouds she laughed, and in her violet eyes flashed the old merriment and whimsical humour. "I can laugh now, Boone, but I couldn't then.... Once I could have reached out my hand and touched you."
His eyes widened, and his vanity suffered a sharp sting. He would have sworn that his heart-hunger would have declared her nearness at any hour of that long period of search, and he told her so, but she laughed again.
"That's in romance, Boone dear. We were in life."
"When was it?"
"It was on Fifth Avenue—just off of Washington Square, one night when sleet was falling. I remember the wet pavements, because I had a hole in one shoe. I was wrestling with an umbrella that the wind tried to turn inside out—and we all but collided..."
"And you didn't speak to me!"
"No. I hurried away as fast as my feet could carry me—including the one with the leaky shoe."
"But, Anne!" The reproach in his voice was almost an outcry, and the girl laid a hand gently, for a moment, over his.
"If I'd let you find me, Boone—just then—I'd never have found myself. It would have been surrender."