"You are quiet this evening," she whispered. "I wish I could know what
you are thinking of all the time."
"There is nothing in my thoughts or in my heart," he answered, "which I
would not tell you if I could. Evenings like this, other evenings which
you and I have spent together in still more beautiful places, have been
like little perfect epochs in an imperfect life. Yet all the time one
is haunted. I am haunted here to-night, even, as I sit by your side. I
move through life a condemned man. I know it for I have proved it.
Before very long the man whom you know, who sits by your side at this
moment, who is your slave, dear, must pass."
"You can never altogether change," she murmured.
His hands clasped the small silver box in his pocket.
"In a few months," he said hoarsely, "unless we can find the missing
plant, I shall be again the common little clerk who came and peered over
your hedge at you in the summer."
She smiled a little incredulously.
"Even when you tell me so," she insisted, "I cannot believe it."
He drew his chair closer to hers. He looked around him nervously, the
horror was in his eyes.
"Since I saw you last," he continued, "I have been very nearly like it.
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