Part 68 (2/2)
She turned, to see Windebank standing before her, a Windebank stalwart as ever, with his face burned to the colour of brick red, but looking older and thinner than when she had last seen him. Mavis' heart sank.
”At last,” he repeated. He looked as if he would say more, but he did not speak. She wondered if he were moved at seeing her again.
Mavis, not knowing what to say, put out her hand, which he clasped.
”Aren't you glad to see me?” he asked.
”Of course.”
”And you're not going to run away again?”
She looked at him inquiringly.
”I mean as you did before, into the fog!”
”There's no fog to run into,” she remarked feebly.
”Little Mavis! Little Mavis! I'd no idea you could look so well and wonderful as you do.”
”Hadn't we better walk? People are staring at us already.”
”I can't see you so well walking,” he complained.
They strolled along; as they walked, Windebank half turned, so that his eyes never left her face.
”What a beautiful girl you are!” he said.
”You mustn't say that.”
”But it's true. And to think of you working for that outsider Devitt!”
”He means well. And I've been very happy there.”
”You won't be there much longer! Do you know why?”
”Tell me about yourself,” she said evasively, as she wondered if talking to Windebank were unfair to Perigal.
”Do you remember this?” he asked, as he brought out a crumpled letter for her inspection.
”It's my writing!” she cried.
”It's the foolish, dear letter you wrote to me.”
She took it, to recall the dreary day at Mrs Bilkins's on which she had penned the lines to Windebank, in which she had refused to hamper his career by acceding to his request.
”Give it back,” he demanded.
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