“Shall you think of me when I am on the train to-night?”
“All the time—every minute!”
“And to-morrow, while I am in the city?”
“Yes!”
“And Monday?”
“Then you will come back to me!”
He strained her to him in the white sunlight, and kissed her again, on the lips and forehead and hands, and she clung to him, lifting her face to him eagerly and passionately.
Margaret stood watching the firm-knit figure as it crossed the sand space. She saw the lift of his lithe shoulders as he pulled himself up the bank, saw his form splashed against the sky, saw the flutter of his handkerchief as he flung her a last signal.
She waved her hand in return, and he disappeared.