“Was it so unlikely?”
“Your friend rejects it.”
“Yes. He believes—still believes—nothing of you but what is good.”
“Dear Hugh!” she breathed softly. Wareham started with amazement.
“You like him still!”
“I have never ceased to like him.”
For the first time in their talk he had turned his eyes on her face, and met her look full. Sitting there, the lovely lines of her figure curved against the waving rye, the warm brown tints of her hair caught by the sunshine, eyes in which the fire was veiled by long lashes, a mouth slightly drooped and softened; all this close to him, and seen in the divine freshness of the young day, sent an intoxicating throb of delight into his heart. Clinging to a bending purpose, he stammered—“Then—then—”
“I shall not marry him. Make him understand this.”
He looked away—closed his eyes, reckless whether she saw the movement or not, only conscious that the momentary madness had passed. It sharpened his voice as he said—“Do not expect me to succeed. I told you that you were enigmatical, and I repeat my words. Nothing that you have said alters the cruelty of dismissing poor Hugh in the sudden and unexpected manner you adopted.” She rose, without at first speaking, but stood in the same place until she said slowly—“Perhaps. But it was difficult to act.”
The words that were on his lips seemed glued there; by an effort he succeeded at last in bringing them out.