'You return to-morrow?' he asked, suddenly.
'I think so. You have promised me to be cheerful until we are home again.'
'A promise to be cheerful wouldn't mean much. But it does mean much that I can think of what you have said to-day.'
Sidwell did not speak, and her silence seemed to compel him to rise. It was strange how remote he still felt from her pure, grave face, and the flowing outlines of her figure. Why could he not say to her, 'I love you; give me your hands; give me your lips'? Such words seemed impossible. Yet passion thrilled in him as he watched the grace of her movements, the light and shadow upon her features. She had risen and come a step or two forward.
'I think you look taller—in that dress.'
The words rather escaped him than were spoken. His need was to talk of common things, of trifles, that so he might come to feel humanly.
Sidwell smiled with unmistakable pleasure.
'Do I? Do you like the dress?'
'Yes. It becomes you.'
'Are you critical in such things?'