But he insisted—I yielded:
"If when the time comes you will write to tell me whether your picture is exhibited or not, I shall like it, Cornelius."
"Have you nothing else to ask for?"
"Nothing else," I replied, looking up at him.
Love is proud: he was banishing me—what could I want with his gifts? He said nothing, and allowed me to go in.
At length came the moment of our separation. I was ready and in the parlour again; the cab was waiting in the lane. Miss O'Reilly, who was to take me, said abruptly—
"Go and bid Cornelius good-bye."
I went up to him trembling from head to foot. He sat by the table reading the newspaper: he laid it down, looked at me, then took me in his arms.
All my fortitude forsook me on finding myself once more clasped in the embrace from which I should so soon be severed. I wept and sobbed passionately on his shoulder. I felt as if I could and would not go—as if it were impossible; a thing to be spoken of, never carried into effect. Cornelius pressed me to his heart, and tried to hush away my grief, but ineffectually. At length he said, very ruefully—
"Oh, Daisy!"