Surely he would not go thus into the high road! It was unendurable to think of him rushing out into the high road—blind with sorrow—it might be into the very bonnet of a passing automobile.
She passed beyond the pines and scanned the path ahead as far as the stile. Then she saw him, lying where he had flung himself, face downward among the bluebells.
“Oh!” she whispered to herself, and put one hand to her heart and drew nearer.
She was flooded now with that passion of responsibility, with that wild irrational charity which pours out of the secret depths of a woman’s stirred being.
She came up to him so lightly as to be noiseless. He did not move, and for a moment she remained looking at him.
Then she said once more, and very gently—
“Mr. Brumley.”
He started, listened for a second, turned over, sat up and stared at her. His face was flushed and his hair extremely ruffled. And a slight moisture recalled his weeping.
“Mr. Brumley,” she repeated, and suddenly there were tears of honest vexation in her voice and eyes. “You know I cannot do without you.”
He rose to his knees, and never, it seemed to him, had she looked so beautiful. She was a little out of breath, her dusky hair was disordered, and there was an unwonted expression in her eyes, a strange mingling of indignation and tenderness. For a moment they stared unaffectedly at each other, each making discoveries.