. . . This
may be my only chance; and I can't go away without telling you."
He had turned from her now, and was staring at the river, so that
his profile was projected against the moonlight in all its beautiful
young dejection.
There was a slight pause, as though he waited for her to speak; then
she leaned forward and laid her hand on his.
"If I have really been--if I have done for you even the least part
of what you say . . . what you imagine . . . will you do for me,
now, just one thing in return?"
He sat motionless, as if fearing to frighten away the shy touch on
his hand, and she left it there, conscious of her gesture only as
part of the high ritual of their farewell.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked in a low tone.
"_ Not_ to tell me!" she breathed on a deep note of entreaty.
"_ Not_ to tell you--?"
"Anything--_anything_--just to leave our . . . our friendship . . .
as it has been--as--as a painter, if a friend asked him, might leave
a picture--not quite finished, perhaps .
Pages:
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196