She hung her head. “No; not that. I do wish it. But it’s impossible—I think.”
He dropped her hand. “Very well,” he said.
They walked slowly on. She felt him going—going out of her life. She could not endure it. She said: “But”—she colored and kept her eyes down—“I—I walk here nearly every afternoon at three o’clock.”
“Isn’t that fortunate!” he said. “So do I.”
Their faces showed how happy they were. They came out of the woods into the main road and lingered over the parting. They parted like friends at the beginning of a promising friendship—a promising man-and-woman friendship. He stood looking after her, and as he was turning away found her handkerchief where she had stood. He picked it up, kissed it with a gentle smile of self-mockery, and put it carefully in the breast-pocket of his coat. “And I thought I came here for the Grand Duke’s Spaniard!” he said.
V
A Prince in a Passion
