For some moments he leaned back against the rock, letting his eyes rove over her face.
"I've carried your picture here," he said, tapping his breast, "all the years I've been away; I'm now comparing it with the original."
"Well," she inquired at last, "am I like it or have I changed?"
"The same, the same, yet not the same. There's a firmer line about your mouth than you could draw round it in the old days."
"Age should bring wisdom, should it not?" She sighed and then continued. "But I'm afraid I don't learn and grow wise."
"I know who put that line there," he said sharply.
She looked up, surprised.
"It was Barbara, Barbara, damn her, the night she prevented you coming to see me."
She winced and rose to her feet. He saw that he had made a mistake, and drew her gently to his side.
"Oh, Lucy, Lucy," he cried suddenly, "I'm beside myself. I can't live without you any longer. I'm mad I know; but I want you, I want you as a man never wanted a woman before. We were born for each other, you can't deny it. Come away with me. We'll go and make happiness for ourselves in a corner of the earth, where no one will ever seek us."