I have sometimes been on the
point of asking you to let me write to you again."
He glanced inquiringly at her. Her eyes fell, and she tried to
speak, but failed. Waymark went to a seat at a little distance from
her.
"You do not look as well as when I met you in the summer," he said.
"I have feared you might be studying too hard. I hope you threw away
your books whilst you were at the sea-side."
"I did, but it was because I found little pleasure in them. It was
not rest that took the place of reading."
"Are your difficulties of a kind you could speak of to me?" he
asked, with some hesitation.
She kept her eyes lowered, and her fingers writhed nervously on the
arm of the chair.
"My only fear would be lest you should think my troubles unreal.
Indeed it is so hard to make them appear anything more than morbid
fancies. They are traceable, no doubt, to my earliest years. To
explain them fully, I should have to tell you circumstances of my
life which could have little interest for you."
"Tell me--do," Waymark replied earnestly.
"Will you let me?" she said, with a timid pleasure in her voice. "I
believe you could understand me. I have a feeling that you must have
experienced something of these troubles yourself, and have overcome
them.
Pages:
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409