"Of course I don't mind," said the Poor Boy cautiously. "But you know as well as I do that when you touch them,—they vanish."
There was a pained silence. She was bitterly disappointed. The Poor Boy was thoroughly bewildered. His imagination was playing him an extraordinary trick.
"That's the reason," he went on, "that we can never tell each other that we love each other, you know. 'Cause if we did, we'd have to kiss and hold hands—and that would be the end of everything—better you this way—than the other way and no you."
Her pain was becoming greater than she could bear.
"Any man would help me," she began; and then came the tears in a torrent.
The Poor Boy could not stand it.
"It is better," he said, "that she should vanish!"
He stepped swiftly forward.
The realness of her almost dazed him. In his happiest day-dreams in Lord Harrow's rose-garden by the lake there had never been quite so vivid a materialization. Furthermore, she had violets in her dress, and as he bent to lift her (and resolve her into the stuff o' dreams) the sweetness of them was strong in his nostrils.