“Shall I come with you?”
She blushed. She began to remember, more vividly each instant, how long she had been there in his arms, almost clinging to him.
“Better not,” she said. “I shall drive him away, and when mother and I have cried together we shall see you. Are you staying in the village?”
“Yes. At the inn, the Feathers I think it is called.”
“Then I shall send for you to-night, or perhaps to-morrow morning.”
“Make it to-night, if possible. Tell your mother I will not add to her sorrows, and it is best she should know all.
“Good-by, then, Violet.”
“Good-by, David.”
He held out his hand, so frankly that she placed her white fingers within the grasp of his strong ones. He was tempted to draw her nearer, but her color rose again, her eyes dropped, and she tore herself away, breaking almost into a run.
David, careless whether he was seen or not, walked off towards the lodge, glancing every now and then over his shoulder to watch Violet hastening to the house. Once, when crossing the lawn, she looked around and waved a hand to him. He replied. Then she vanished, and David walked on, the happiest man in England.