He rubbed his eyes and peered again. There was no mistake. It was Jane.
[XXIX]
ARCADIA AGAIN
She did not move at his approach, although his footsteps among the dried leaves must have been plainly audible, and he was within ten feet of the fire before she turned.
“We had better be going soon, Challón,” she began and then stopped, as she raised her head and looked at him. He wore his old fishing hat with the holes in it, a faded blue flannel shirt, corduroys and laced boots; and as her eye passed quickly over his figure to his face, she paled, started backward and stared with a terror in her eyes of something beyond comprehension. He saw her put her arm before her face to shut out the sight of him and rise to one knee, stumbling blindly away, when he caught her in his arms, whispering madly:
“Jane! Jane! Don’t turn away from me. It’s Phil, do you hear? Myself—no other. You were waiting for me—and I came to you.”
She trembled violently and her hand clutched his arm as though to assure herself of its reality.
“Jane, look up at me. Look in my eyes and you’ll see your vision there—where it has always been, and always will be—unchangeable. Look at me, Jane.”
Slowly she raised her head and saw that what he said was true, the pallor of dismay retreating before the warm flush that suffused her from neck to brow.