“'YOU WILL GIVE YOURSELF TO ME NOW?'”
“No,” said Emeline.
He was making her ask herself that most insidious question, “Why could not the other have been like this?”
“Tell me—can you say, 'I hate you,' now?”
“No,” said Emeline.
“I have grown to be a better man since you said you hated me. The miracle cannot be forced. Next time?” He spoke wistfully.
“No,” Emeline answered, holding to the bush. She kept her eyes on the ground while he talked, and glanced up when she replied. He stood with his hat off. The flakes of sun touched his head and the fair skin of his forehead.
He moved towards Emeline, and she retreated around the bush. Without hesitating he passed, making a salutation, and went on by himself to St. James. She watched his rapid military walk furtively, her eyebrows crouching, her lips rippling with passionate tremors. Then she took to flight homeward, her skirts swishing through the woods with a rush like the wind. The rebound was as violent as the tension had been.