But it was an awful
storm, and so fearfully warm afterwards, wasn't it? I couldn't sleep at
all--that's why I'm up so early. I came over to ask you to go up to
Hampstead with me to get some real air. This London extract of air is a
very poor substitute, isn't it? Now don't say no to a poor daughter
whose young man is out of town!"
As she talked, looking casually at the passers-by, she could, so tense
were her nerves, almost hear him think. "She is quite unsuspecting," he
was telling himself, "there is no danger for her, and--it doesn't matter
about _me_. And I am strong and need never betray myself----"
She talked on, the kind of unconcerned nonsense that was, her strange,
new instinct told her, best calculated to quite his vibrant nerves.
"Little child, little child," he returned mutely, "how little you know!
Well--as you are so innocent, why should not I snatch this fearful joy
while I may? It harms no one but myself, and such pain is better than
any happiness on earth----"
"Yes, _ma fille_," he said at length, as she pointed to a barrow of
nodding daffodils, "we will go to Hampstead; it is a good idea. But
first I must send a wire or two. And--you must promise to return to me,
unopened, the note you will find in Pont Street.
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