"Nothing?"
"I have said so! Nothing at all. It was mere nervousness, and because—it reminded me of other things."
"Did he see you cry?" asks Dysart, tightening unconsciously his grasp upon her hand.
"No. He was gone a long time, quite a long time, before it occurred to me that I should like to cry. I," with a frugal smile, "indulged myself very freely then, as you have seen."
Dysart draws a long breath of relief. It would have been intolerable to him that Beauclerk should have known of her tears. He would not have understood them. He would have taken possession of them, as it were. They would have merely helped to pamper his self-conceit and smooth down his ruffled pride. He would inevitably have placed such and such a construction on them, one entirely to his own glorification.
"I shall leave you now with a lighter heart," says Felix presently—"now that I know you are not going to marry that fellow."
"You are going, then?" says she, sharply, checking the monotonous little tattoo she has been playing on the bridge rail, as though suddenly smitten into stone. She had heard he was going, she had been told of it by several people, but somehow she had never believed it. It had never, come home to her until now.
"Yes. We are under orders for India. We sail in about a month. I shall have to leave here almost immediately."
"So soon?" says she, vaguely. She has begun that absurd tattoo again, but bridge, and restless little fingers, and sky and earth, and all things seem blotted out. He is going, really going, and for ever! How far is India away?
"It is always rather hurried at last. For my part I am glad I am going."