How yearningly the girl's eyes still inclined to yonder distant south.
“Let us say no more about it now, Rotha,” he said huskily. “If you wish it, we'll talk again on this matter—that is, I say, if you wish it; if not, no matter.”
The young man was turning away. Without moving the fixed determination of her gaze, Rotha said quietly,—
“Willy, I think perhaps I do love you—perhaps—I don't know. I remember he said that our hearts lay open before each other—”
“Who said so, Rotha?”
There was another start of recovering consciousness. Then the wide eyes looked full into his, and the tongue that would have spoken refused that instant to speak. The name that trembled in a half-articulate whisper on the parted lips came upwards from the heart.
But the girl was ignorant of her own secret even yet.
“We'll say no more about it now, Rotha,” repeated Willy in a broken voice. “If you wish it, we'll talk again; give me a sign, and perhaps we'll talk on this matter again.”
In another moment the young man was gone.