Her eyes were not lifted. She went on: "We come, in time, to believe
that true feeling comes faltering forth, not glibly; that smoothness
betokens the adept in the art, sir, rather than your true--your true--"
She was herself faltering; more, blushing deeply, and halting to a full
stop in terror of a word. There was a silence.
"Your--true--lover," he said huskily. When he had said that word both
trembled. She turned half away into the darkness of the coach.
"I know what make' you to doubt me," he said, faltering himself, though
it was not his art that prompted him. "They have tol' you the French
do nothing always but make love, is it not so? Yes, you think I am like
that. You think I am like that now!"
She made no sign.
"I suppose," he sighed, "I am unriz'nable; I would have the snow not so
col'--for jus' me."
She did not answer.
"Turn to me," he said.
The fragrance of the fields came to them, and from the distance the
faint, clear note of a hunting-horn.
"Turn to me."
The lovely head was bent very low. Her little gloved hand lay upon the
narrow window ledge. He laid his own gently upon it. The two hands were
shaking like twin leaves in the breeze. Hers was not drawn away. After
a pause, neither knew how long, he felt the warm fingers turn and clasp
themselves tremulously about his own. At last she looked up bravely and
met his eyes. The horn was wound again--nearer.
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