'No,' she said, struggling with herself--'No! Wait a moment.' She lay
against him trembling through every limb, while he kissed and comforted
her.

'I'm--I'm not a coward, George!' she said at last, gasping,--'I'm not
indeed. Only--well, this morning I had about a hundred and seventy hours
left--I counted them. And now there are fifteen less. And all the time,
while we talk, they are slipping away, so quick--so quick--'

But she was regaining self-control, and soon released herself.

'I won't do it again!' she said piteously, in the tone of a penitent
child. 'I won't indeed. Let's go home. I'm all right.'

And home they sped, hand in hand, silently. The little room when they
re-entered it was bright with firelight, because kind Mrs. Weston had
thought the flight chilly, and the white table laid out for them--its
pretty china and simple fare--tempted and cheered them with its look of
home. But Nelly lay on the sofa afterwards very pale, though smiling and
talking as usual. And through the night she was haunted, sleeping and
waking, by the image of the solitary boat rocking gently on the moonlit
lake, the water lapping its sides. She saw herself and George adrift in
it--sailing into--disappearing in--that radiance of silver light.
Sleepily she hoped that Sir William Farrell would not forget his
promise.




CHAPTER III