‘Don’t you think it is a little vindictive to visit one’s former utterances upon one now?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, good-bye,’ says he quickly. He turns, wounded more than he could have believed it possible to be by a girl who is positively nothing to him. Nothing! he quite insists on this as he goes down the path.
But now—what is this? Swift feet running after him; a small eager hand upon his arm.
‘Mr. Wyndham! Don’t go away like this. If I have offended you, I am sorry; I’—her lips begin to tremble now, and the eyes that are uplifted to his are dim—‘I am dreadfully sorry. Oh, don’t go away like this! Forgive me!’ Suddenly she bursts into tears. ‘Do forgive me!’
‘Forgive? I? It is you who have to forgive,’ stammers he. ‘Ella!’
He has laid his hand upon hers to draw them from her eyes, but with a sudden movement she breaks from him and runs back to the house. At the door, however, she stops, and glances back at him, and he can see that her face is radiant now, though her eyes are still wet with their late tears.
‘Good-bye! Good-bye!’ cries she. She raises both her hands to her lips, and in the prettiest, the most graceful fashion flings him a last farewell. This manner of hers is new to him. It is full, not only of friendliness, but of the joy of one who has been restored once more to happiness.
On the avenue of Crosby Park Wyndham meets the master of it, who has plainly been strolling this way with a view to meeting him on his return.