He had committed himself to an opinion practically to the same effect upon more than one previous occasion.
And now, as then, the expression of that opinion was followed by a long silence, as their faces came together.
“Beatrice,” he said, in a tremulous voice.
“Harold.”
“I shall go on with you to Abbeylands. Come what may, we shall not now be separated.”
But they were separated that very instant. The carriage was flooded with light—the chastened flood that comes from an oil lamp inserted in a hollow in the roof—and they were no longer in each others arms. They heard the sound of the porter’s feet on the roof of the next carriage.
“It is so good of you to come,” said she.
There was now perhaps three inches of a space separating them.
“Good?” said he. “I’m afraid that’s not the word. We shall be under one roof.”
“Yes,” she said slowly, “under one roof.”