strange expectancy of mood that had swayed her during these weeks at Jalna was nothing but the premonition of this moment. She said, trying to take herself in hand:—
"I am going back to the house. I think I heard the stable clock strike. It must be dinner-time." She turned away and began to walk quickly over the rough orchard grass.
It was significant of the eldest Whiteoak that he made no attempt to follow her, but sat with his eyes on her retreating form, confident that she would look back at him. As he expected, she turned after a dozen paces and regarded him with dignity but with a certain childlike pleading in her voice.
"Will you promise never to think of me as I have been this morning?" she asked.
"Then I must promise never to think of you at all," he returned with composure.
"Then never think of me. I should prefer that."
"Come, Alayne, you know that's impossible."
"Well, promise to forget this morning."
"It is forgotten already."
But, hurrying away through the orchard, she felt that if he could forget as easily as that it would be more terrible to her than if he had brooded on it in his most secret thoughts.
