“Began. Yes. But why did you go on?”
“Because I—I didn’t like Sylvia—and I liked you—rather—but I won’t be a nuisance. I’ll go back to mother. Say you forgive me. I’ll go by the first train in the morning.”
“The first train,” said Michael absently, “is the 9.17; but to-morrow is Christmas Day—I daresay they’ll run the same as on Sunday.”
She took her white cloak from the settle by the fire.
“Good night,” she said sadly; “you are very hard. Won’t you even shake hands?”
“We had no roses at our wedding,” he said, still absently; “but there are roses at Christmas.” He raised his hand to the white flowers she wore, and touched them softly. “White roses, too, for a wedding,” he said.
“Good night!” she said again.
“And you will go to your mother to-morrow by the 9.17 train, or the 10.5, if the trains run the same as on Sunday. And I am to forgive you, and shake hands before we part. Well, well!”
He took the hand she held out, caught the other, and stood holding them, his grey eyes seeking hers. Her head thrown back, her hands stretched out, she looked at him from arm’s length.
“Dear!” he said.