She answered as if by no will of her own:"The night of the ball--as we were
going home."
She waited until she felt that she should sink to the ground.
Then he spoke again as if rather to himself than to her, and with the
deepest sorrow and pity for them both: "If I had gone with you that night--if I had gone with you that night--and
had asked you--you would have married me."
Her lips began to quiver and all that was in her to break down before
him--to yearn for him. In a voice neither could scarce hear she said: "I will marry you yet!"
She listened. She waited, Out of the darkness she could distinguish not the
rustle of a movement, not a breath of sound; and at last cowering back into
herself with shame, she buried her face in her hands.
Then she was aware that he had come forward and was standing over her. He
bent his head down so close that his lids touched her hair--so close that
his warm breath was on her forehead--and she felt rather than knew him
saying to himself, not to her: "Good-bye!"
He passed like a tall spirit out of the door, and she heard his footsteps
die away along the path--die slowly away as of one who goes never to return.