And then, as nobody made any remark to him, Jean pulled his forelock to the company and shuffled out of the room and down the stairs.
Olwen became alarmed at the strange depression into which old Mr Bayre appeared to have sunk, and going softly to his side, she leant over him and asked him how he was.
Opening his eyes, the old man caught sight of his nephew and instantly pointed with a shaking finger to the door.
“Go away,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Go at once. And let me never see your face again.”
Weak as he was, he woke for the moment into such a passion of determination and resentment, as he uttered these words, that Olwen feared for the result if the object of his vehement prejudice should remain any longer under his roof. She therefore ran across the room to young Bayre, who had already opened the door to go out, and following him to the head of the stairs, held out her hand and said hurriedly,—
“Yes, yes, you had better go away at once. I’m not afraid of being left with him now that the Vazons are away. And I’ll write to you; I’ll be sure to write.”
Already the old man’s voice, harsh and broken, was calling to her to return to him. She looked up once, her great eyes full of light, kind, reluctant to let her good friend go.
An answering light came into the young man’s eyes. He retained her hand, drawing her towards him.
“Olwen, kiss me,” he whispered.
For one moment she held back, but she yielded, and their lips met for the first time.