“You heard the others calling, and you waited for me?”
“Yes.”
Then—I cannot describe what was, only what must have been, for the white-heat of those moments has annihilated the memory of them—she was close within my arms, and my lips reached hers. Yes, for that ineffable once, I must have kissed her, since I remember too well that when I would have drawn her to me again, she put me away with a gentle pressure of her hand against my arm.
She shook her head slowly, her gaze searching mine. “You—misunderstood, I think. I—I let you because of what I saw in your eyes. They were soft and wistful for a moment.”
“But—Paula—”
“Now I think that you must never do that again.”
My mind went cold and grey as the world about us. “I’m sorry, then. Indeed, I must have misunderstood.”
I saw that some change had rushed over her. Her face became dull and sad, as if the clammy gloaming that darkened about us had penetrated to her heart. “Don’t misunderstand me all over again; please don’t. Your kisses might be very sweet, and their meaning might be dear to dream about. But you know that I have to set all the woman in me aside. . . . I must forget dreams,” she said bitterly, and to my astonishment she put both hands across her eyes and commenced to sob, sinking down on the stone seat again. I stood by and felt the iron grind into my soul.
But half a minute later she looked up with a rueful smile through her tears. “How perfectly ridiculous of me. What must you think! Don’t imagine for a minute that I was crying for any such preposterous reason as I said. It’s just that I’m awfully, awfully tired, and I felt tired that moment. I was up nearly all last night over your diary. Please, have you a handkerchief I can use? I’ve nothing but one of these silly little women’s affairs.”
I handed over a fairly clean one. “Up all last night and in the hills all day! You’re a Trojan. But at least you found what you were looking for?”