Presently he laughed uncertainly, and struck his forehead with his open hand.
“It’s a mistake,” he said; “and if it is a mistake, Heaven help the other man!”
She watched him with curious dismay. Never could she have believed that the touch of a man’s hand could thrill her; never had she imagined that the words of a man could set her heart leaping to meet his stammered vows. A new shame set her very limbs quaking as she strove to rise. The distress in her eyes, the new fear, the pitiful shyness, called to him for mercy.
For a miracle he understood the mute appeal, and he took her hand in his quietly and bade her good-night, saying he would stay and smoke awhile.
“Good-night,” she said; “I am really tired. I would rather you stayed here. Do you mind?”
“No,” he said.
“Then I shall go back alone.”
He watched her across the lawn. When she had gone half-way, she looked back and saw him standing there in the moonlight.
And that night, as her little silver hand-glass reflected her brilliant cheeks, she veiled her face in her bright hair and knelt down by her bedside.
But all she could say was, “I love him—truly I love him!” which was one kind of prayer, after all.