“So long! If you care, the suspense will be very hard for you. I do not like to hurt you so.”
“I prefer the six months.”
“Well,” speaking in her ordinary tone, “do not come to me, wherever I may be—we may both be in the next world by that time—”
“We shall not be so much changed as to forget, shall we?”
“Or not to care? I will write you a letter on the first day of June; I will mail it before ten o’clock.”
She laid her hand in his; he held it a moment, neither speaking.
“Oh, you are here,” cried a voice.
And she was talking the wildest nonsense in two minutes, with her eyes and cheeks aflame.
At half past one the last guests had departed; Mary paused in a description of somebody’s dress and asked Tessa if she would like to go to bed.
“I have always wished to get near to you,” said Nan, leading the way up-stairs. “I knew that there was a place in your heart for me to creep into.”