"There are some things here that I think will interest you, Mr. Moore," she said. "They only arrived last night, and I was just putting them away when you came in."
He went to the portfolio; she took out two or three large photographs and handed them to him; the first glance showed him what they were—pictures of the Aivron and the Geinig valleys, with the rocks and pools and overhanging woods he knew so well. He regarded them for an instant or two.
"Do you know what first made me long to get away from the theatre?" he said, in a low voice. "It was those places there. It was Strathaivron—and you."
"I, Mr. Moore?"
And now he had to go on; he had taken his fate in his hands; there was some kind of despairing recklessness in his brain; his breath came and went quickly and painfully as he spoke.
"Well, I must tell you now, whatever comes of it. I must tell you the truth—you may think it madness—I cannot help that. What I want to do is to give up the theatre altogether. I want to let all that go, with a past never to be regretted—never to be recalled. I want to make for myself a new future—if you will share it with me."
"Mr. Moore!"
Their eyes met; hers frightened, his eagerly and tremblingly expectant.
"There, now you know the truth. Will you say but one word? Honnor—may I hope?"
He sought to take her hand, but she shrank back a step—not in anger, but apparently quite stupefied.