She was so wrought up that she felt and showed no surprise at his presence. It was so picturesquely natural that she should be standing there in the moonlight, on the bank of the most romantic river in the whole world, with the only man she had ever loved. Time and chance had combined to bring about this hour. Rivers had never thought of following her before.
But he completely ignored her morbid speech. She was hurt, though, indeed, it was what she might have expected. She said no more, but stood looking tragically down into the flood.
“By Jove, but it is fine!” the artist presently murmured to himself, in tones of deep conviction.
Nature—mere non-sentient, abstract Nature again—and a woman, eager, passionate and romantic, standing by him!
“Don’t you wish you had your sketch book here?” that woman asked him, bitterly.
“Oh, I can remember it!” he replied, simply. “But I am very glad I came out. How did you happen to know there was a moon, and that she would be shining over this reach of the river?”
“I didn’t know,” she said. “I just came out—I don’t know why—I suppose, because I was restless.”
She sighed, and fingered her sash, and sighed again.
“How did you know where I had gone? I have been”—reproachfully—“an hour away, and you never even looked up when I left the room!”
“I missed you, though,” he said. “I feel things, sometimes, when I am very busy, without seeing them.”