‘I will go,’ he said hoarsely, ‘if you will give me those flowers in your hand.’
‘How foolish you are!’ she cried. ‘There, yes, take them, and for Heaven’s sake go!’
She thrust them towards him, and he took them from her hand—a cluster of roses, moist and sweet. Instead of fulfilling his promise, however, he made a step closer to her.
‘Will you put them in my coat?’ he asked. His eyes in his haggard face seemed to burn.
‘No,’ said Rosalie, drawing back.
The movement and the icy tone that accompanied it recalled him to himself. He, too, drew back, hesitated, and then, throwing the flowers on the ground with a passionate gesture, departed. Back again through the gate, across the yard, under the lea of the hedge, over the downs.
Here was home; there was the warm light of the fire by which his uncle sat. Now the door was open, and he stood once more in his presence; now, he, Richard, would be forced to look him in the face.
For a moment he stood with the door-handle in his hand, and then, as the old man turned to smile inquiringly upon him, he suddenly wheeled and fled.
‘I can’t,’ he cried, as he mounted the stairs. ‘I can’t!’
Isaac stared at the closed door for some moments as though expecting it to open again, then, slowly turning back to the fire, listened.