“You alone have the power, Una,” he said.
From a slowly moving figure amid the bushes behind them came an uncompromising question:
“David, you have told her?”
The dusky outline, the large quaker hat, the wide-skirted coat catching occasionally among the dry twigs and branches, revealed Harold Leighton. He stood in the center of the pathway, his gray eyes fixed upon them, awaiting an answer.
“David has told me,” said Una firmly.
“You have told her?” he repeated.
“I have told her that I love her,” he answered.
“Is that all?”
“I told her that I am unworthy of her.”
“Why are you unworthy of her?”