Pierce Winwood had practically confessed to her that he meant to ask Josephine if she thought she could love him, and the chance had undoubtedly been given to him to put such a question to her. If then—if—if he...
In an instant she fancied that she perceived all that had happened.
She did not as a matter of fact perceive all that had happened, but she certainly did become aware of a good deal—enough for her to go on with; and a moment after perceiving this she saw that Pierce Winwood was walking rapidly alongside the rails of Kensington Gardens.
He saw her and made a little motion with his hand suggesting his desire to speak to her. She stopped the victoria.
“I hope you will be at home this afternoon,” he said. “I am so anxious to speak with you for five minutes.”
“I will walk the rest of the way home: I have not had a walk to-day,” she said, stepping out of the victoria.
“You are very good,” he said, as the machine whirled off. “Do let us turn into the gardens for a minute. I should not like to miss this chance. You saw that announcement in the papers to-day?”
“Ah—ah!” she sighed, as they went through one of the gates and on to an avenue made dim by the boughs of horse-chestnut.
“Think of it! Think of that paragraph if you can when I tell you that she told me only on Monday that she loved me,” he cried.
She stopped short. So she had not been mistaken after all.