She got up swiftly, suddenly, and thrust her hands out before her, as if warding off something. Her face was deathly white, and she looked only at the loch.
“Oh, stop! stop! Don’t you realise it is impossible?” He changed colour visibly.
“Perhaps I have been too sudden after all,” he said. “Perhaps by and by—”
“No, newer,” and she mustered all her powers for the final word.
He gave a queer little laugh.
“‘Never’ is a long time,” with a touch of the old cynical manner.
“I mean it,” resolutely.
“You mean you prefer London—and the dispensary—and the loneliness to Mourne Lodge, and the loch, and the mountains?”
She was silent.
“Is that what you mean, Paddy!”