A soft colour crept into her cheeks, deepened, spread to her brow and throat. There was a quality in his voice, in his touch, which was unmistakable. She was unprepared. He had come perilously near, she felt, to hating her that morning. She had realised his anger and been unmoved by it; his tenderness affected her deeply; but she managed to control her emotion.
“You have been very considerate always,” she returned quietly—“and impartial I’ve liked that in you. Whatever happens, I believe that in our hearts you and I will remain friends—even if we don’t meet in the future.”
“Oh! we shall meet,” he said confidently.
But she shook her head and smiled faintly and made no reply in words.
“Do you mean you would rather we didn’t meet?” he asked, in tones of hurt surprise.
“No; not that.”
She attempted to withdraw her hand, but he prevented her, and she desisted.
“What then?” he asked, and was conscious of a sudden overmastering passion for her. A fierce desire to seize her and crush her in his arms wellnigh swept him off his balance. Hunger for her gripped him and hurt him like a physical ache. He wanted Honor at that moment more than he had ever wanted anything in his life.
“Nothing can keep us apart but your own wish... nothing. Honor, I want you... I love you.”
His voice shook. He pulled her towards him a little roughly and threw an arm about her and held her close.