She was in white, my dear man--as fresh and dainty as a rose, I
remember. Daisies round a broad-brimmed straw: some books under her arm.
The sun was on her, lit the gold in her hair. She looked neither right nor
left, spoke to no one, had no one with her, or after her. She was never
showy. You had to know her well to see how lovely she was. She never
showed off well, and was always silent in company. Oh, but what a girl!
"When she saw me she flushed all over, and stood. She stood on the last
step, and looked at me. Looked at me straight, as if she waited. I went
directly to her, and took her hand. She let me. I couldn't speak sense. I
said, 'You!' and she said, 'I knew I should see you like this.' It sounded
all right. I never questioned it." ... He stared, then broke out. "Good
God, Bill! To think of her then--and to see her now! She won't look at me!
I don't exist." He plunged his face between his hands, and rocked himself
about. Chevenix watched him without a word. Suddenly he lifted his pinched
face, and complained bitterly.
"I can't understand it--I don't know what's changed her. Why, it's awful
to make a chap suffer like this!" He stared about him. "Why, Bill," he
said, hushing down his voice, "is she going to drop me, d'you think--let
me go to the devil?"
Chevenix rose and stood with his back to the fire.
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