She met him with a question on her lips which was not uttered in face of what she saw in his eyes. They stood for a moment with clasped hands and he looked at her smiling, and she at him gravely, and presently they walked to a corner of the garden overlooking the sea, from where each dear beauty of the place was visible.
“Will it hurt you greatly to leave it, dear?” he 367 asked, prefacing the inevitable with question of her will to do so.
“Just as much as it will hurt you. No more or less,” she answered, her head against his arm. “But I am glad it is so good to leave.”
“That’s my mind, too. How do you know what I mean, though?”
“I’ve always known it must come, Christopher.”
She spoke low and looked away, weakly hoping for the moment he would leave it at that, but Christopher never left uncertain points behind him.
“You knew I should come to take this other work—this inheritance?”
She nodded. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to him.
“Why didn’t you tell me so, Patricia?”
“I was so sure you would know yourself. I hated to be the one to speak,” her voice shook a little. “Oh, forgive me, Christopher, dearest,” she cried suddenly, “it was weak of me, for I did know always, only I wanted all this for a little time so badly. Just a taste of the beautiful good life you had planned. I thought it would not matter, just two years.”