"I must go," she said, hurriedly. "You will remember the way."
"Pray do not go—just this minute," he said. "History may repeat itself; life never does. There can never be a night half so fair as this again; the water will never fall with so sweet a ripple; the stars will never shine with so bright a light; life may pass, and we may never meet again. You have a face like a poem. Stay a few minutes longer."
"A face like a poem." Did he really think so?
The words pleased her.
"Strange things happen in real life," he said; "things that, told in novels and stories, make people laugh and cry out that they are exaggerated, too romantic to be real. How strange that I should have met you here this evening by the side of the mill-stream—a place always haunted by poetry and romance. You will think it stranger still when I tell you your face has haunted me all day."
She looked at him in surprise. The proud, beautiful face grieved at the words.
"How is that?" she asked.
"I saw you this morning when I was going to Rashleigh with my friend, Sir Frank Euston. You were standing against a white gate, and I thought—well, I must not tell you what I thought."
"Why?" she asked, briefly.
"Because it might offend you," he replied.