“I can be by the abbey.”
“On Monday—about four?”
“Yes. I can be there.”
They stood looking at each other in silence, as though there were some regret in either heart that the sun had sunk below the hills. It was growing dusk apace. Richard fumbled with his bridle and made as though to go. They were standing quite close to each other in the dusk, Bess’s eyes fixed upon Jeffray’s face, her lips half parted as though she were about to speak.
“I have not told you my dream,” she said, with a little laugh.
“St. Agnes’s dream?”
“Yes. I will tell it to you on Monday.”
Jeffray held out his hand to her. She was stooping a little, and her look suggested that she would have liked Richard to kiss her. The man remembered Miss Jilian Hardacre of a sudden, and he gazed at Bess as though some intangible barrier were between them.
“Good-night.”
“Good-night, Bess. I will think of you—till next time.”