CHAPTER XXXIII.
DENIS WILDE'S LOVE.
A mighty pain to love it is,
And 'tis a pain that love to miss;
But, of all pains, the greatest pain
Is to love, but love in vain.
Cowley.
He had not been mistaken. It was Helen who had crept out after him in the darkness, and whose slight figure, in her pale blue dress, stood close by him in an angle of the road.
How long she had stood there and what she had heard he did not know. He expected a torrent of abuse and a storm of reproaches from her, but she refrained from either. She passed her arm within his, and walked beside him for several minutes in silence. Maurice, who felt rather guilty, was weak enough to say, hesitatingly,
"The night was so fine, I strolled out to smoke——"
"Qui s'excuse s'accuse," quoted Helen; "only you are not smoking, Maurice!"
"My cigar has gone out; I—I met Miss Nevill at the gate of the vicarage."