‘There are other houses.’ He is now putting on his gloves.
‘Ah! that is as true for me as for you.’
‘We have come to an agreement, I think’—grimly. ‘Let us keep to it.’ He turns to the door.
‘You are going?’ says she nervously. She follows him. ‘You——’ She stops, and courtesy compels him to look back. Two troubled eyes meet his.
‘When——’ stammers she.
‘I shall come down some day next week to make final arrangements,’ says he impatiently, and again takes a step or two away, getting so far this time as to turn the handle of the door. Here, however, again he glances back. She is standing where he last saw her, her young face looking troubled, frightened, and uncertain.
‘Next week,’ repeats he jerkily. It is disagreeable to him to think that it is through his fault that the nervous anxiety has crept into her eyes. ‘And—er—good-bye.’ He certainly had not meant to do it, but he now holds out his hand to her, and with a little swift, eager movement she comes to him and slips her own into it.
A slim little hand, and beautifully shaped, but brown, and looking a little as though it had done some hard work in its time, yet the grace with which she gives it to him is exquisite.
Just at the gate he meets Mrs. Denis again.