“Darling!” broke from him, his boy’s heart beating fast and high. And their soft young lips were, through some mystery of power, drawn so near to each other that they met like flowers moved to touching by the summer wind.
Later Rupert went to Tom, who sat by an open window in his room and looked out on the moonlit stretch of avenue. The boy’s heart was still beating fast, and, as the white light struck his face, it showed his eyes more like Delia Vanuxem’s than they had ever been. Their darkness held just the look Tom remembered, but could never have described or explained to himself.
“Uncle Tom,” he began, in an unsteady voice, “I couldn’t go to bed without telling you.”
Tom glanced up at him and learned a great deal. He put a big hand on his shoulder.
“Sit down, boy,” he said, his kind eyes warming. Rupert sat down.
“Perhaps I ought not to have done it,” he broke forth. “I did not know I was going to do it. I suppose I am too young. I did not mean to—but I could not help it.”
“Sheba?” Tom inquired, simply.
“Her eyes were so lovely,” poured forth the boy. “She looked at me so like an angel. Whenever she is near me, it seems as if something were drawing us together.”
“Yes,” was Tom’s quiet answer.
“I want to tell you all about it,” impetuously. “I have been so lonely, Uncle Tom, since my mother died. You don’t know how I loved her—how close we were to each other. She was so sweet and wonderful—and I had nothing else.”