“London was a desert,” he said. “I have finished my work for a few days, and I have brought my writing down here.”
“When did you come?” she asked.
“Last night,” he answered. “I was just wondering how I could send a note up to you. Fortunately, I remembered your favorite walk.”
“Did you really come to see me?” she murmured.
He laughed softly, and bent towards her. All her hesitation and mistrust seemed to pass away. She lay quietly in his arms, with her face upturned to his. He kissed her on the lips. All the time his eyes were watching the path along which he had come.
“Let us sit down,” she said at last, gently disengaging herself from him. “There are so many things I want to ask you.”
“And I too,” he answered. “I have something to say—something I cannot keep to myself any longer.”
He led the way to a fallen tree, a little removed from the footpath. They were scarcely seated, however, before he turned his head sharply in the direction from which he had come. His whole frame seemed to have become suddenly rigid with an intense effort of listening. He raised his finger with a warning gesture.
“Sit still,” he whispered. “Don’t say anything. There is someone coming.”