They both blushed as they approached, she from sex, he from inexperience. One thing she seemed to see in a moment, that in the interval of her absence St. Cleeve had become a man; and as he greeted her with this new and maturer light in his eyes she could not hide her embarrassment, or meet their fire.
‘I have just sent my page across to the column with your book on Cometary Nuclei,’ she said softly; ‘that you might not have to come to the house for it. I did not know I should meet you here.’
‘Didn’t you wish me to come to the house for it?’
‘I did not, frankly. You know why, do you not?’
‘Yes, I know. Well, my longing is at rest. I have met you again. But are you unwell, that you drive out in this chair?’
‘No; I walked out this morning, and am a little tired.’
‘I have been looking for you night and day. Why do you turn your face aside? You used not to be so.’ Her hand rested on the side of the chair, and he took it. ‘Do you know that since we last met, I have been thinking of you—daring to think of you—as I never thought of you before?’
‘Yes, I know it.’
‘How did you know?’
‘I saw it in your face when you came up.’