“You rode away—so quickly—I had no chance to—tell,” she replied, haltingly and low-voiced. All was sweet shame about her now, and he had to fight himself to keep from gathering her to his breast. Verily this meeting between Allie and him was not what he had anticipated.
He kissed her hand.
“You’ve all the fall and all the winter to tell me such sweet things,” he said. “Perhaps to-morrow I’ll find my tongue and tell you something.”
“Tell me now,” she said, quickly.
“Well, you’re beautiful,” he replied, with strong feeling.
“Really?” she smiled, and that smile was the first he had ever seen upon her face. It brought out the sadness, the very soul of her great beauty. “I used to be pretty,” she went on, naively. “But if I remember how I used to look I’m not pretty any more.”
Neale laughed. He had begun to feel freer, and to accept this unparalleled situation with some composure.
“Tell me,” he said, with gentle voice and touch—“tell me your name. Allie—what?”
“Didn’t you ever know?” she asked.
“You said Allie. That was all.”