'Have you thought—?'
The sense of a dissolving to a fountain quivered through her veins.
'Turn the tables and examine me.'
'But have you thought—oh! I am not the girl you loved. I would go through death to feel I was, and give you one worthy of you.'
'That means what I won't ask you to speak at present but I must have proof.'
He held out a hand, and hers was laid in his.
There was more for her to say, she knew. It came and fled, lightened and darkened. She had yielded her hand to him here on land, not with the licence and protection of the great holiday salt water; and she was trembling from the run of his blood through hers at the pressure of hands, when she said in undertones: 'Could we—we might be friends.'
'Meet and part as friends, you and I,' he replied.
His voice carried the answer for her, his intimate look had in it the unfolding of the full flower of the woman to him, as she could not conceal from such eyes; and feeling that, she was all avowal.
'It is for life, Matthew.'