"I'm all right," I answered brusquely. "I've had a top-hole time, and I'm frightfully bucked about it. Let's have a tramp."
He rose too, he looked ill and worried.
"Pam," he said, "things may happen—out there. They do. I don't think it's necessary to break off our supposed engagement at once. It—it would be so much easier for you if you didn't. Pam—I wish to God I could undo things."
"Why?" I queried starkly.
"If you should ever pay for these six weeks—in any way—I'd never forgive myself."
I tried to reach him. I wish I were big that I could tuck an arm in his and tell him not to be an idiot, but I dare not touch him. I knew that I should cry and cling to him.
I do not believe there ever was a more wonderful night, so full to the brim of scents and moonlight and velvet shadowed mystery.
"I—I want to go home," I said suddenly. "I'm tired."
We hardly spoke again until we reached our garden gate. I had the feeling that he, too, was surging with the things he wanted to say.
At the gate he put his hands on my shoulders, he was breathing like a man who had run far.