"You know—you know!"
So they reached the stile at the top of the wood—and here, when he had lent her his hand to climb it, he paused, still holding in his her hand.
Now or never, should the third volume begin—and end. Should he? Should he not? Which would yield the more perfect memory—the one kiss to crown the day, or the kiss renounced, the crown refused? Her eyes, beseeching, deprecating, fearing, alluring, decided the question. He framed her soft face in his hands and kissed her, full on the lips. Then not so much for insurance against future entanglement as for the sound of the phrase, which pleased him—he was easily pleased at the moment—he said—
"A kiss for love—for memory—for despair!"
It was almost in silence that they went through lanes still and dark, across the widespread park lawns and down the narrow road to the station. Her hand still lay against his heart. The kiss still thrilled through them both. They parted at the station. He would not risk the
