Cornelia turned swiftly, and a light leapt into her eyes; a light of joy, so pure and involuntary that, at sight of it, the man’s face lost something of its grim tension. He turned his back so as to screen the girl from the passers-by, and his hand tightened on her arm.
“Cornelia, are you running away from me?”
She did not answer, but her silence gave assent—her silence, and a quiet bend of the head.
“Why?”
“I was—afraid!” breathed Cornelia, low.
Beneath the close-fitting cap Guest could see her lips tremble. The little face looked white and tense. She twisted her fingers nervously.
“Afraid of me, and my love? Afraid that I should come back to trouble you? Afraid of my selfishness, Cornelia?”
The curling lips breathed a faint dissent.
“Of what, then? We have only a few minutes left. You must tell me the truth now!”
She raised her eyes to his; brave, pitiful eyes, mutely imploring for mercy.