She stepped back and the hot blood mounted to her cheek. Her eyes shone like outraged stars, dreaming earthward on a sleeping past, unwarningly obscured by a passing cloud, and then flashing out into the night, more brightly from the contrast.
She did not speak and he crunched under his feet, purposely, the turf he was standing on, and so carrying out, naturally, the gesture of clasping the air, in establishing his balance—as if it was an accident.
She let him believe she thought it was, and secured relief from the incident.
“Alice—Alice!” he exclaimed. “I love you—love you—I must have you in my life! Can you not wear this now? See!”
He tried to place it on her finger. He held the small beautiful hand in his own. Then it suddenly withdrew itself and left him holding his ring and looking wonderingly at her.
She had thrown back her head, and, half turned, was looking toward the crepe-myrtle tree from which the faint odor came.
“You had better go, Richard,” was all she said.
“I'll come for my answer—soon?” he asked.
She was silent.
“Soon?” he repeated as he rose in the stirrup—“soon—and to claim you always, Alice.”