"I made a misstatement. I should have said I have ceased to exist for him."
"That means that you love him?"
She faced round angrily.
"How dare you suggest such things of me? Do you think that women like I are made the same as slippers, to wait till footsore wanderers have need of them? Do you imagine I would waste an eyelash in weeping for milk wantonly spilt?"
"Yet you cried?" he ventured, very softly.
"I cried from desolation. Can't you understand the loss of the illusion being more lamentable even than the loss of the reality? Come, let us go back," she added, "it is growing dark."
They wandered homewards lingeringly. The summer dusk was full of sweet mystery, of hazy, promising indefinitude; the heath led to the high road, and from thence they came under the darkness of trees, copper-beech and acacia trees, which made a fringed avenue along the back of the Silvers' orchard.
They halted as they reached the wicket. Each longed to express something, but the something was in so many volumes they could not decide whence to light on their quotation. At last she said:—
"I feel you are good and loyal and true. I wish I were worthy you."
He took her hand in his wide palms and smiled.