"
He leaned a little forward. They could see the smoke curling up from
the house below, its gardens laid out like patchwork, the low house
itself covered with creepers.
"It was an idyll, that," he went on. "Bomford's trail is about the
place now, the trail of some poisonous creature. Nothing will ever be
the same. I want to remember this last evening. I have looked upon
life from the hill tops and I have looked at it along the level ways,
but I have seen nothing in it so beautiful, I have felt nothing in it so
wonderful, as my love for you. You were a dream to me before, half
hidden, only partly realized. Soon you will be a dream to me again.
But never, never, dear, since the magic brush painted the blue into the
skies, the purple on to the heather, the green on to the grass, the
yellow into the gorse, the blue into your eyes, was there any love like
mine!"
She leaned towards him. Her fingers were cold and her voice trembled.
"You must not!" she begged.
He smiled as he passed his arm around her.
"Are we not on the hill top, dear?" he said. "You need have no fear.
Only to-night I felt that I must say these things to you, even though
the passion which they represent remains as ineffective forever as the
words themselves.
Pages:
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186