“It is I.”
“Who's I?”
Then she saw him coming down on her, and the very sunlight seemed to wave like the shadows on a ship. He was paler and thinner, his great eyes looked weary though they smiled, his hand felt bony though firm, and his head was closely cropped.
She looked at him for a moment without speaking and with a sensation of fulness at her heart that was almost choking her.
“Is it you? I didn't know it was you—I was just thinking——” She was talking at random, and was out of breath as if she had been running.
“Glory, I have frightened you!”
“Frightened? Oh, no! Why should you think so? Perhaps I am crying, but then I'm always doing that nowadays. And, besides, you are so——”
“Yes, I am altered,” he said in the pause that followed.
“And I?”
“You are altered too.” He was looking at her with an earnest and passionate gaze. It was she—herself—Glory—not merely a vision or a dream. Again he recognised the glorious eyes with their brilliant lashes and the flashing spot in one of them that had so often set his heart beating. She looked back at him and thought, “How ill he must have been!” and then a lump came into her throat and she began to laugh that she might not have to cry, and broke out into broad Manx lest he should hear the tremor in her voice: