"Come, Mrs. Anthony, don't let me carry away from
here the idea that you are a selfish person, hugging the memory of your
past happiness, like a rich man his treasure, forgetting the poor at the
gate."
I rose to go, for it was getting late. She got up in some agitation and
went out with me into the fragrant darkness of the garden. She detained
my hand for a moment and then in the very voice of the Flora of old days,
with the exact intonation, showing the old mistrust, the old doubt of
herself, the old scar of the blow received in childhood, pathetic and
funny, she murmured, "Do you think it possible that he should care for
me?"
"Just ask him yourself. You are brave."
"Oh, I am brave enough," she said with a sigh.
"Then do. For if you don't you will be wronging that patient man
cruelly."
I departed leaving her dumb. Next day, seeing Powell making preparations
to go ashore, I asked him to give my regards to Mrs. Anthony. He
promised he would.
"Listen, Powell," I said. "We got to know each other by chance?"
"Oh, quite!" he admitted, adjusting his hat.
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