Lilias felt a great strain and commotion in her own bosom, but she achieved a little laugh.
"Do you always say that when people you know are going away?"
He was angry, he was miserable, he did not know what he was saying. Providence, if it was fair to connect those two idiots with any great agency, had prevented him. His programme of action seemed to be destroyed. He could not answer this little provocation with any of those prefaces of the truth which would so soon have brought everything to a crisis had they been seated together under the palms. He said, almost sharply, which was so unlike Lewis,
"You must go away; that is a little soil of society. You would not have said so at Murkley last year."
"Mr. Murray!" cried Lilias.
The tears came suddenly to her eyes. It was as if he had struck her in the melting of her heart. She made a gulp to get down a little sudden sob, like a child that has been met with an unexpected check. And then she said, softly,
"I do not think I meant it," with a look of apology and wonder, though it was he who ought to have apologized. But he did not; he pressed her hand close to his side almost unconsciously.
"Do you remember," he cried, "that lovely morning—was there ever such a morning out of heaven? The river and the birds just waking, and you standing in the bow——If it could but have lasted——"
"It lasted long enough," said Lilias, with an effort. "It began to get cold; and Katie whispering, whispering. You never said a word all the time."
Again he pressed her hand to his side.