"Don't, don't," she pleaded.
He understood. The pathos of that great thought was too much for her. It hurt her as it did him. What a mind!
They rocked and swung idly, he pushing with his feet at times in which labor she joined him. They strolled up the beach and sat down on a green clump of grass overlooking the sea. Idlers approached and passed. He laid his arm to her waist and held her hand, but something in her mood stayed him from any expression. Through dinner at the hotel it was the same and on the way to the train, for she wanted to walk through the dark. Under some tall trees, though, in the rich moonlight prevailing, he pressed her hand.
"Oh, Suzanne," he said.
"No, no," she breathed, drawing back.
"Oh, Suzanne," he repeated, "may I tell you?"
"No, no," she answered. "Don't speak to me. Please don't. Let's just walk. You and I."
He hushed, for her voice, though sad and fearsome, was imperious. He could not do less than obey this mood.
They went to a little country farmhouse which ranged along the track in lieu of a depot, and sang a quaint air from some old-time comic opera.
"Do you remember the first time when you came to play tennis with me?" he asked.