As far as he could
gather from her inscrutable face, she was weighing things--what
things?
Suddenly she sprang up, one of those fine movements of hers full of
cat-like grace.
"Paul," she said, "listen," and she spoke rather fast. "You are so
young, so young--and I shall hurt you--probably. Won't you go
now--while there is yet time? Away from Lucerne, back to Paris--even
back to England. Anywhere away from me."
She put her hand on his arm, and looked up into his eyes. And there
were tears in hers. And now he saw that they were grey.
He was moved as never yet in all his life.
"I will not!" he said. "I may be young, but to-night I know--I want to
live! And I will chance the hurt, because I know that only you can
teach me--just how--"'
Then his voice broke, and he bent down and covered her hand with
kisses.
She quivered a little and drew away. She picked up a great bunch of
tuberoses, and broke off all their tops. "There, take them!" she said,
pressing them into his hands, and those against his heart. "Take them
and go--and dream of me. You have chosen. Dream of me to-night and
remember--there is to-morrow."
Then she glided back from him, and before he realised it she had gone
noiselessly away through another door.
Paul stood still.
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