CHAPTER XXXI 460
Mr. St. John spoke almost like an automaton: himself only knew the effort it cost him thus to refuse.
" Well, if you are so obstinate, I will leave you; for I dare not stay any longer: the dew begins to fall. Good evening!"
She held out her hand. He just touched it. " Good evening!" he repeated, in a voice low and hollow as an echo. She turned, but in a moment returned.
" Are you well?" she asked. Well might she put the question: his face was blanched as her gown.
" Quite well," he enunciated; and, with a bow, he left the gate. She went one way; he another. She turned twice to gaze after him as she tripped fairy-like down the field; he, as he strode firmly across, never turned at all.
This spectacle of another ' s suffering and sacrifice rapt my thoughts from exclusive meditation on my own. Diana Rivers had designated her brother " inexorable as death." She had not exaggerated.