“I wanted to say something before I went,” said Fraser, slowly, as he paused at the street-door, “and I will say it.”
Miss Tyrell, raising her eyebrows somewhat at his vehemence, waited patiently.
“I have loved you from the moment I saw you,” said Fraser, “and I shall go on loving you till I die. Good-bye.”
He pressed her hand again, and walked down the little front garden into the street. At the gate he paused and looked round at Poppy still standing in the lighted doorway; he looked round again a few yards down the street, and again farther on. The girl still stood there; in the momentary glimpse he had of her he fancied that her arm moved. He came back hastily, and Miss Tyrell regarded him with unmistakable surprise.
“I thought—you beckoned me,” he stammered.
“Thought I beckoned you?” repeated the girl.
“I thought so,” murmured Fraser. “I beg your pardon,” and turned confusedly to go again.
“So—I—did,” said a low voice.
Fraser turned suddenly and faced her; then, as the girl lowered her eyes before his, he re-entered the house, and closing the door led her gently upstairs.
“I didn’t like you to go like that,” said Miss Tyrell, in explanation, as they entered her room.