"Guy, they're only staying a week."
"Well," he protested, "and for me to stay with you a week takes months of these miserable little hours we have. Oh, Pauline, I must see more of you."
Then back came the adoring cousins, and Guy felt that no torture he could imagine was bad enough for them. Their cordiality to him was so great that he had to be superficially pleasant; and, as smile after smile was wrung from him, by the end of the afternoon he felt sick with the agony his politeness had cost.
"Hurry and dress! hurry! hurry!" he begged Pauline, in a whisper when the gong sounded. "Let us at least have five minutes alone before dinner comes and I must go."
Pauline was scarcely five minutes in coming down again, but Guy counted each tick of the clock with desperate heartsickness.
"Oh, my darling, my darling," he said when she was held in the so dearly longed for, the so terribly brief embrace. "I cannot bear the torment of to-day."
She tried to soothe him; but Guy had reached the depths and this relief after such effort was almost too late.
"Pauline, listen," he said quickly. "You must come and say good-night to me in the garden. Do you hear? You must. You must. I shan't sleep unless you do. You must."
"Guy," she murmured, "I couldn't."
"You must. Promise ... you must. Come down and say good-night to me on the lawn. I shall wait there all night. I shall wait...."