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Her white dress stirred against the dusk, and he was filled and enveloped, overwhelmed with sense of her. He surprised a look of gladness and incredulity on her pale face as she slowly rose to greet him. And as of old her nervous pale fingers fluttered to her hair.

'Richard Milne! Why are you here? When did you come?'

He held her hand, looking into her darkened eyes, almost level with his own. 'You are asking!' he exclaimed slowly. 'Do you know, I couldn't quite believe—well, in you.' Suddenly he realized it. 'Ever since I got off the train I've been hurried, urged by something. Something was wrong—at least; and I had to see you to believe that this sorry, this decorative and rapscallion world did hold you—all that you mean.' In a boyish access he laughed.

She laughed a little, with an intonation of sadness, withdrawing her hand. 'Sit down. You've not changed. When did you come?' She moved two books on the seat, and reposed beyond them.

He sighed, still lost in the sight of her. 'Then you don't refuse to see me, you don't send me away this time ... or not yet.' His tone was reproachfully accusing, more than ironical. She smiled faintly. Her pale, almost sallow face had become radiant.