“It was his wish.”
“In a month from now?” he whispered tenderly.
“Yes,” she said, still gazing past him at the photograph.
“My own!” he cried, “I had not dared to hope for this. But, Claude, dearest, why do you look so strange?”
He felt as if a hand of ice had touched him, and his own closed upon hers with a spasmodic grip, as he looked sharply round and saw the photograph, the counterfeit presentment gazing sternly in his eyes.
But Claude was too intent upon her own thoughts to notice his ghastly pallor, and, uttering a low sigh, she at last withdrew her hand.
“Do not say more to me now, Mr Glyddyr,” she sighed faintly. “I am weak. The shock of coming back here has been almost more than I can bear. You will go now. Do not think me unkind and cold, but you will leave me till to-morrow.”
“Yes, yes,” he cried huskily, as he forced himself to take her hand which felt like ice, and, bending over it, he pressed his lips upon the clear transparent skin. “Yes, till to-morrow,” he said; and, carefully keeping his eyes averted from the photograph, he walked quickly from the room.
“Claude! Claude!” cried Mary entering, but there was no reply. “Claude!” and she laid her hand upon the girl’s shoulder, to start back in alarm at the waxen face that was slowly turned towards her. “Claude, darling, don’t look like that. Tell me. He did ask you?”
Claude nodded.