“And there is one,” he added.
She felt a hand that loved her hand, and there was no veil over her face. How strange that was. How utterly impossible it seemed. Yet it was so. No woman can be deceived in the touch of a hand on hers. If it loves—she knows.
“What are you going to do, Viola?”
“I don’t know.”
There was a sound almost of shame, a humble sound, in her voice.
“I can’t do anything,” she murmured. “You would know that to-morrow, in sunlight.”
“To-morrow I’ll come in sunlight.”
“No, no. I shall not be there.”
“I shall come.”
“Oh!—good-night,” she said.