“Would to heaven that I had the chance.”
“Do not say that. You would drown yourself there.”
(They had reached the Round Pond.)
He walked along in silence by her side—in silence and with bowed head.
“I know what will happen,” he said at last: “she will soon become reconciled to her fate. She will soon come to think that he is part of her life and I shall cease to be in any thought of hers. Well, perhaps that is the best thing that could happen. But I thought that she was not like other women. I fancied that when she knew... But you will see her again? You will tell her that I must see her—surely she will let me say good-bye to her.”
“I can say nothing. But you must not see her now. Wait for a day or two. Oh, cannot you trust her to bear you in mind for a day or two? Did she not say that she loved you?”
“And she does—I know that she does. Oh, it is the old story—the old story. Her father has forced her into this.”
Amber could say nothing. She thought that it would be better for her not to go into the question of the antiquity of the story of a girl promising to marry a rich man, and her parents endeavouring to marry her to a poor one—that was the summary of the love story of Josephine West.
He walked in silence—comparative silence—by her side until they reached the road once more. At the entrance to her home, he said humbly:
“My dear Miss Severn, I feel that you have given me good advice. I will obey you—I will make no attempt to see her for some days. I knew that I should be right in coming to you. You will forgive me for the wild way I talked to you.”