“I hope you may.”
Then he kissed her hand devotedly—the first time in his life—and went away on wings.
Zoe flew up to her aunt Maitland, flushed and agitated. “Aunt, I am as good as engaged to him. I have said such unguarded things. I'm sure he will understand it that I consent to receive his addresses as my lover. Not that I really said so.”
“I hope,” said Aunt Maitland, “that you have committed yourself somehow or other, and cannot go back.”
“I think I have. Yes; it is all over. I cannot go back now.”
Then she burst out crying. Then she was near choking, and had to smell her aunt's salts, while still the tears ran fast.
Miss Maitland received this with perfect composure. She looked on them as the last tears of regret given to a foolish attachment at the moment of condemning it forever. She was old, and had seen these final tears shed by more than one loving woman just before entering on her day of sunshine.
And now Zoe must be alone, and vent her swelling heart. She tied a handkerchief round her head and darted into the garden. She went round and round it with fleet foot and beating pulses.
The sun began to decline, and a cold wind to warn her in. She came, for the last time, to a certain turn of the gravel walk, where there was a little iron gate leading into the wooded walk from the meadows.
At that gate she found a man. She started back, and leaned against the nearest tree, with her hands behind her.