The hurried steps drew nearer, and now he could dimly see an approaching figure. Serena never walked like that—never came light and swift, tall and free-moving as a young Diana! It looked like—but of course it couldn’t be. It seemed so only because he had been thinking so much of that other girl, and longing so much to see her.
He turned up the headlights of his car, sending a clear river of light along the road; and the hastening figure was plain to him now. It was Geraldine.
He sprang out of the car and went to meet her, his dark face all alight.
“Dear girl!” he cried. “Why, I couldn’t believe—”
She drew back a little.
“No!” she cried. “I—I only came—”
“I don’t care why you came,” he began. “You’re here—that’s enough!”
Then he noticed how anxious she was, how hurried, and how pale. The light died out of his face. He became grave, as she was.
“Anything wrong?” he asked.
His voice was gentle, and he stood before her with a sort of humility. He knew now that she had not come on his account, and he was terribly disappointed. She saw that, yet she felt that, after all, it would not be hard to explain to him, to ask anything of him. She felt sure that he would understand, and would do whatever she wanted; and that knowledge caused her an odd little thrill, half of pain, half of pride.