“Oh, I beg your pardon! I didn’t mean to ask you that.” She halted, and again cast a rapid glance behind and ahead of her. Then she held out her hand. “Well, then, thank you—and let me relieve your fears. I sha’n’t be Effie’s governess much longer.”
At the announcement, Darrow tried to merge his look of relief into the expression of friendly interest with which he grasped her hand. “You really do agree with me, then? And you’ll give me a chance to talk things over with you?”
She shook her head with a faint smile. “I’m not thinking of the stage. I’ve had another offer: that’s all.”
The relief was hardly less great. After all, his personal responsibility ceased with her departure from Givre.
“You’ll tell me about that, then—won’t you?”
Her smile flickered up. “Oh, you’ll hear about it soon.... I must catch Effie now and drag her back to the blackboard.”
She walked on for a few yards, and then paused again and confronted him. “I’ve been odious to you—and not quite honest,” she broke out suddenly.
“Not quite honest?” he repeated, caught in a fresh wave of wonder.
“I mean, in seeming not to trust you. It’s come over me again as we talked that, at heart, I’ve always known I could...”
Her colour rose in a bright wave, and her eyes clung to his for a swift instant of reminder and appeal. For the same space of time the past surged up in him confusedly; then a veil dropped between them.