“You'll tear it, Hugh,” she said, and perforce lifted it herself. Her eyes met his—and she awoke. Not to memories or regrets, but to the future, for the recording angel had mercifully destroyed his book.
“Did you miss me?” she said.
“Miss you! My God, Honora, how can you ask? When I look back upon these last months, I don't see how I ever passed through them. And you are changed,” he said. “I could not have believed it possible, but you are. You are—you are finer.”
He had chosen his word exquisitely. And then, as they trotted sedately through Madison Avenue, he strained her in his arms and kissed her.
“Oh, Hugh!” she cried, scarlet, as she disengaged, herself, “you mustn't—here!”
“You're free!” he exclaimed. “You're mine at last! I can't believe it! Look at me, and tell me so.”
She tried.
“Yes,” she faltered.
“Yes—what?”
“Yes. I—I am yours.”