The lane was growing dusky now, and Grace, as it happened, held a white glove and a fold of the silvery grey skirt in an uncovered hand, for the dew was settling heavily upon the grass between the wheel ruts. Ingleby did not look at her.
"I don't think I could make you understand how sordid and distasteful my life here is—and it can't be changed," he said. "Every door is closed against the man with neither friends nor money. He must be taught his place, and stay in it, dragging out his life in hopeless drudgery, while I——"
He stopped again, and then looked his companion steadily in the face. "I have found out in the last month how much life has to offer one who has the courage to make a bold bid for what he is entitled to."
"And you expect to make it out there—which presumably means America or Canada?"
They had reached an oaken door in a mossy wall, and Ingleby stood still. "Yes," he said, slowly, "I intend to make it there. Life holds so much—I did not know how much a little while ago—and there are alluring possibilities if one has the courage to break away from the groove prejudice and tradition force him into here. I may never see you again—unless I am successful I think I never shall. Would it be a very great presumption if I asked you for something, a trifle, to carry away with me?"
He stood looking down upon her with a curious wistfulness in his face, and Grace afterwards tried to believe that it was by accident she dropped her glove just then. In any case, next moment young Ingleby stooped, and when he straightened himself again he not only held the glove exultantly fast, but the hand she had stretched out for it. Then a patch of vivid crimson showed in Grace Coulthurst's cheek as they stood face to face in the summer twilight—the lad of low degree, with tingling nerves and throbbing heart, and the girl of station rudely shaken out of her accustomed serenity. In those few moments they left their youth behind, and crossed the mystic threshold into the ampler life of man and woman.
Then Ingleby, swinging off his straw hat, let the little hand go, and looked at the girl steadily.
"If that was wrong you will have a long while in which to forgive me," he said. "If I live and prosper out there I will bring you back the glove again—and, whatever happens, you cannot prevent my carrying your memory away with me."
Then he turned away, looked back, still bareheaded, and with a little resolute shake of his shoulders swung away down the darkening lane, while Grace inserted a key in the oaken door with somewhat unsteady fingers. She was as yet neither pleased nor angry, but bewildered, and only certain that he had gone, and her face was burning still.