But he stood on the step, barring the way.
"I say, give me something to take with me," he said hoarsely. "What's that in your hat?"
"In my hat?" she said, laughing—(but if there had been light he would have seen that her lips had paled). "Why, a bunch of buttercups. I bought them at Whinthorpe yesterday."
"Give me one," he said.
"Give you a sham buttercup? What nonsense!"
"It's better than nothing," he said doggedly, and he held out his hand.
She hesitated; then she took off her hat and quietly loosened one of the flowers. Her golden hair shone in the dimness. Mason never took his eyes off her little head. He was keeping a grip on himself that was taxing a whole new set of powers—straining the lad's unripe nature in wholly new ways.
She put the flower in his hand.
"There; now we're friends again, aren't we? Let me pass, please—and good-night!"
He moved to one side, blindly fighting with the impulse to throw his powerful arms round her and keep her there, or carry her across the bridge—at his pleasure.