“I must. Don’t I know? You were such an unawakened little thing, my dear. But I could have—waked you. And I can’t wake you now. That’s my tragedy. You’ll never wake up—for me——”
“Don’t——”
“Well, it’s true. Why not say it? I’ve come back a—scarecrow, the shadow of a man. And you’re just where I left you—only lovelier—more of a woman—more to be worshipped—Jane——”
As he caught her hand up in his, she had a sudden flashing vision of him as he had been when he last sat with her in the grove—the swing of his strong figure, his bare head borrowing gold from the sun—the touch of assurance which had been so compelling.
“I never knew that you cared——”
“I knew it, but not as I did after your wonderful letters to me over there. I felt, if I ever came back, I’d move heaven and earth.” He stopped. “But I came back—different. And I haven’t any right to say these things to you. I’m not going to say them—Jane. It might spoil our—friendship.”
“Nothing can spoil our friendship, Evans——”
He laid his hand on hers. “Then you are mine—until somebody comes along and claims you?”
“There isn’t anybody else,” she turned her fingers up to meet his, “so don’t worry, old dear,” she smiled at him but her lashes were wet. Her hand was warm in his and she let it stay there, and after a while she said, “I have sometimes thought that if it would make you happy, I might——”
“Might—love me?”