Tears stood in her eyes, and Roy contemplating her—seeing, for the first time, something beyond her beauty—felt drawn to her in an altogether new way; and sitting there they talked of him quietly, like friends, rather than lovers on the verge of parting for good.
As real to them, almost, as themselves, was the spirit of the man who had loved both more greatly than they were capable of loving one another; who, in life, had refused to stand between them; yet, in death, had subtly thrust them apart....
Then there came a pause. They remembered....
"We're rather a strange pair—of lovers," she murmured shakily. "I feel, now, as if I can't bear letting you go. And yet ... it wouldn't last.—Dearest, will you be sensible ... and finish your tea?"
"No. It would choke me," he said with smothered passion. "If I've got to go—I'm going."
He stood up, bracing his shoulders. She stood up also, confronting him. Neither could see the other's face quite clear.
Then: "Only six weeks!" she said very low. "Roy—we ought to be ashamed of ourselves."
"I am—heartily," he confessed. "I was never more so."
She was looking down now, twisting her ring. "I'm afraid ... I'm not talented in that line. Somehow ... except for Lance, I can't regret it." She slid the ring over her knuckle.
"Oh, keep the beastly thing!" he flung out in an access of pain. "Or throw it down the khud. I said it would bring bad luck."