which fear had set on her face.
“Don’t attempt to speak to me just yet,” I went on. “Take time to recover yourself—take time to feel quite certain that I am a friend.”
“You are very kind to me,” she murmured. “As kind now as you were then.”
She stopped, and I kept silence on my side. I was not granting time for composure to her only, I was gaining time also for myself. Under the wan wild evening light, that woman and I were met together again, a grave between us, the dead about us, the lonesome
mine suddenly. She kissed it, Philip, and said (oh, so earnestly!), “I will always wear white as long as I live. It will help me to remember you, ma’am, and to think that I am pleasing you still, when I go away and see you no more.” This is only one specimen of the quaint things she says so prettily.