It is needless to say how eagerly John fulfilled her behest, and with what a distracting mixture of pleasure and longing he saw her fasten the flowers at her waist.
Slowly they paced about the moss-grown paths. Once she stumbled, and he enquired breathlessly if she would take his arm. What wondering bliss when she agreed; how that strong arm of his thrilled under the light pressure! What a sweet, sweet, brief dream it was! All too brief, indeed, for while they yet wandered side by side among the sunlit green a shrill voice was heard calling from the house, and Lucy, withdrawing her hand from his arm, gave a little impatient sigh.
“They are calling me; I must go in.”
“Wait a moment,” cried John peremptorily; his voice was hoarse, his eyes seemed to burn in his pale face, “let us part here, since we must part.”
She, too, had grown pale; but, after a moment’s pause, seemed to struggle against the contagion of his emotion.
“Pooh,” she said, with a little jarring note in her voice, “who knows? After all we may meet yet. Some folks say the world is a small place.”
“No, no,” he cried fiercely, “’tis you, yourself, who have said it, madam. You go out of my life this day; my one hour is wellnigh over, but a moment of it remains. Let it at least be full; give me something to remember it by.”
Trembling in spite of herself, she looked at him, as much in earnest now as he:
“What would you have?” she said almost in a whisper. “This?”
She detached one of the roses from her nosegay and held it out to him with shaking fingers.