To his surprise she took his arm and held it lightly.
“I do hate them!” she said. “What would you do if they were to run after us?”
“They never do,” he answered, briefly, and fell silent. But she was amazed to feel his arm, his firm, strong arm, tremble beneath her touch. She smiled to herself in the dark.
They came at last to the glen, and sat down on a rock. The moon had risen just above the crags; the air was tremulous with its light.
“It’s too bad there are nothing but owls here,” she said. “I’d love to hear a nightingale sing.”
“I’ve heard ’em, in England. I was there four years.”
“Now, you see! With all the interesting things you’ve got to tell me, and that I want so much to hear, you talk about going away to-morrow. You can’t!”
“I must!”
“Are you—going to write to me?”
“No. What would be the use?”