“No, to the south one.”
“Listen to me, my Dryad—are you listening?” For her face was turned away.
“Yes,” said Daphne.
“You are going to forget me, to forget this afternoon, to forget everything but Robin whistling through the summer twilight.”
“No,” said Daphne.
“Yes; because you have a very poor memory about unhappy things! You told me so. But just for a minute after I have gone you will remember that now all is very well with me, because I have found the deep meadows—and honey still for tea—and you. You are to remember that for just one minute, will you? And now good-bye——”
She tried to say the words, but she could not. For a moment he stood staring down at the white pathos of the small face, and then he turned away. But when he came to the gate, he paused and put his arms about the wall, as though he would never let it go, laying his cheek against the sun-warmed bricks, his eyes fast closed. The whistling came nearer, and he stirred, put his hand on the little painted gate, vaulted across it lightly, and was gone. She turned at Robin’s quick step on the walk.
“Ready, dear? What are you staring at?”
“Nothing. Robin, did you ever hear of Stephen Fane?”
He nodded grimly.