She had got another nurse-boy for the baby and so had a little liberty in which to roam about Beira, looking at the coolie curio-shops, and riding on the trollies that ran up and down the town. She bought herself an Indian silk shirt of delicate rainbow tints softly blending into one another, and he acquired a set of six twisted gold bangles for an imaginary sister, and a little one for Aimée. Then he wanted to give Amber Eyes a little black ebony walking-stick knobbed and tipped with ivory. But she would not have it.
“Not even a little remembrance of our journey down?” he pleaded.
“It looks like a memento mori,” she protested.
“It will be one if you use it to walk away from me.”
“I am able to do that without the use of a crutch,” she laughed.
“I daresay. What you are not able to do is to prevent me from following, even if I have to come on crutches.”
“Surely you are too clever a man to waste your time?”
She turned away from him with a bright cheek, leaving no time for a response. Not that he had a response ready. He was not quite sure whether he was a clever man or not, nor whether he stood on his head or his heels. But he meant to keep his balance. And he did—right up to nine o’clock that night.
At that time he was seated beside her in a trolley car which also contained half a dozen other people bent on a moonlight drive. The little bag she carried slipped to the floor and in stooping to recover it for her in the contracted space his face touched her knee whereon lay her hand. Under an uncontrollable impulse he pressed his lips to it. She instantly drew it away, and they sat in silence for a moment. Then, below the noise of the trolley wheels she heard his voice very low and vibrating:
“Amber, I love you!”