word catching the heroine in his arms, and after one long, tremendous look,
carrying her off to anywhere...

Reggie bowed to his vision. "Yes, I see," he said huskily.

"Do you?" said Anne. "Oh, I do hope you do. Because I feel so horrid
about it. It's so hard to explain. You know I've never--" She stopped.
Reggie looked at her. She was smiling. "Isn't it funny?" she said. "I
can say anything to you. I always have been able to from the very
beginning."

He tried to smile, to say "I'm glad." She went on. "I've never known any
one I like as much as I like you. I've never felt so happy with any one.
But I'm sure it's not what people and what books mean when they talk about
love. Do you understand? Oh, if you only knew how horrid I feel. But
we'd be like...like Mr. and Mrs. Dove."

That did it. That seemed to Reginald final, and so terribly true that he
could hardly bear it. "Don't drive it home," he said, and he turned away
from Anne and looked across the lawn. There was the gardener's cottage,
with the dark ilex-tree beside it. A wet, blue thumb of transparent smoke
hung above the chimney. It didn't look real. How his throat ached! Could
he speak? He had a shot. "I must be getting along home," he croaked, and
he began walking across the lawn. But Anne ran after him. "No, don't.
You can't go yet," she said imploringly. "You can't possibly go away
feeling like that." And she stared up at him frowning, biting her lip.

"Oh, that's all right," said Reggie, giving himself a shake. "I'll...
I'll--" And he waved his hand as much to say "get over it."