"And you will stay here and work the ranch and write, Dickie?"
"Yes, ma'am." He managed a smile. "If you think a fellow can push a plough and write poetry with the same hand."
"It's been done before. And—and you will send me back to Hilliard and—the good old world?"
Dickie's artificial smile left him. He stood, white and stiff, looking down at her. He tried to speak and put his hand to his throat.
"And I must leave you here," Sheila went on softly, "with my stars?"
She got up and walked over to the door and stood, half-turned from him, her fingers playing with the latch.
Dickie found part of his voice.
"What do you mean, Sheila, about your stars?"
"You told me," she said carefully, "that you would go and work and then come back—But, I suppose—"
That was as far as she got. Dickie flung himself across the room. A chair crashed. He had his arms about her. He was shaking. That pale and tender light was in his face. The whiteness of a full moon, the whiteness of a dawn seemed to fall over Sheila.