“It’s a very silly name,” she said. “I never tell it to any one.”
Her hand was on the gate, to open it. His hand closed over hers.
“Please!” he said. “I know you’re going away. I think you’ve begun to go already. Can’t you just let me know that, so that I can think of you by your own dear name?”
“No!” said Miss Smith.
She was really frightened. She knew that if she told him her name, here in this enchanted garden, in the twilight, it would be fatal. The adventure was becoming too much for her. Her own heart was getting too much for her, filled with emotions she could not bear. She was Miss Smith, the governess—the brisk, sensible, unromantic Miss Smith—she tried valiantly to remember that.
“No!” she said again, and pulled away her hand.
Just then the door of the cottage opened, and Mrs. Mount appeared in the lighted doorway.
“Darcy!” she called. “And—oh, Miss Smith! Oh, come in, my dear!”
Her voice had warmth in it, and kindliness. It reminded Miss Smith of her mother, who used to stand in a lighted doorway like that, and call her in from her play. She thought of herself going back to New York to be a governess again. She thought of Mr. Powers—Darcy—left alone in that garden, thinking of her. Was he, after all his kindness, to be left thinking of her as “Miss Smith”?
She turned toward him.