He was standing quite still by
the golden straw beehive, but he had thrown one arm across his eyes, as
though to shut out some intolerable sight. And then, with a soft little
rush she was standing beside him.
"How--how do we get the cushions?" she demanded breathlessly.
Stephen Fane dropped his arm, and Daphne drew back a little at the
sudden blaze of wonder in his face.
"Oh," he whispered voicelessly. "Oh, you Loveliness!" He took a step
toward her, and then stood still, clinching his brown hands. Then he
thrust them deep in his pockets, standing very straight. "I do think,"
he said carefully, "I do think you had better go. The fact that I have
tried to make you stay simply proves the particular type of rotter that
I am. Good-by--I'll never forget that you came back."
"I am not going," said Daphne sternly. "Not if you beg me. Not if you
are a devil out of hell. Because you need me. And no matter how many
wicked things you have done, there can't be anything as wicked as going
away when some one needs you. How do we get the cushions?"
"Oh, my wise Dryad!" His voice broke on laughter, but Daphne saw that
his lashes were suddenly bright with tears. "Stay, then--why, even I
cannot harm you. God himself can't grudge me this little space of
wonder--he knows how far I've come for it--how I've fought and struggled
and ached to win it--how in dirty lands and dirty places I've dreamed of
summer twilight in a still garden--and England, England!"
"Didn't you dream of me?" asked Daphne wistfully, with a little catch of
reproach.
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