“Good-by Marguerite,” he said, suddenly rising and taking his hat and gloves.
“Good-by—not yet. Philip turn: let me look at you!” She clung tightly to the hand he had given her, and held him fast while she fixed a long, deep gaze upon his face—a gaze so strange, so wistful, so embarrassing, that Mr. Helmstedt cut it short by saying, gently:
“Farewell, dearest! let me be gone.”
“Not yet! oh, not yet! a moment more!” her bosom swelled and heaved, her lips quivered, but no tear dimmed her brilliant, feverish eyes, that were still fixed in a riveting gaze upon his face.
Mr. Helmstedt felt himself strongly moved.
“Marguerite, why Marguerite, dearest, this is not like you! You are in soul a Spartan woman! You will receive my parting kiss now and bid me go,” he said, and opened his arms and pressed her to his heart a moment and then with another whispered, “Farewell,” released her.
“God bless you, Philip Helmstedt,” she said.
The next instant he was gone. She watched him from the door, where he was joined by his groom and valet, down to the beach and into the boat; and then she went upstairs to the balcony over the bay window and watched the boat out of sight.
“There! That is the last! I shall never see his face again,” she murmured, in heartbroken tones, and might have cast herself upon the ground in her desolation, but that two gentle arms were wound about her, and a loving voice said,
“Dearest mother.”