"
"No," said Daphne.
"Yes; because you have a very poor memory about unhappy things! You told
me so. But just for a minute after I have gone, you will remember that
now all is very well with me, because I have found the deep meadows--and
honey still for tea--and you. You are to remember that for just one
minute--will you? And now good-by--"
She tried to say the words, but she could not. For a moment he stood
staring down at the white pathos of the small face, and then he turned
away. But when he came to the gate, he paused and put his arms about the
wall, as though he would never let it go, laying his cheek against the
sun-warmed bricks, his eyes fast closed. The whistling came nearer, and
he stirred, put his hand on the little painted gate, vaulted across it
lightly, and was gone. She turned at Robin's quick step on the walk.
"Ready, dear? What are you staring at?"
"Nothing! Robin--Robin, did you ever hear of Stephen Fane?"
He nodded grimly.
"Do you know--do you know what he is doing now?"
"Doing now?" He stared at her blankly. "What on earth do you mean? Why,
he's been dead for months--killed in the campaign in East Africa--only
decent thing he ever did in his life. Why?"
Daphne never stirred. She stood quite still, staring at the painted
gate.
Pages:
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396