Happiness had
brought the youth back to her face. Her hair swept like burnished wings
under her small close hat, and the eyes that she raised to his were dark
and splendid. There was about her always in moments of happiness the
look of a beauty too bright to last or to grow old; and now, in this
last romance of her life, she appeared to be drenched in autumn
sunshine.
"One does want to make sacrifices," she answered. "That is the penalty
of joy. One can scarcely believe in it before it goes."
"Well, I believe in this. You are very lovely. Where have you been?"
"To the Governor's. I wanted to speak to Patty. I feel sorry for Patty
to-day. I feel sorry for almost every one," she added, with an
enchanting smile, "except myself."
"And me. Surely you don't waste your pity on me? But what of Miss Vetch?
Hasn't she her own particular happiness?"
"I wonder--" Then, without finishing her sentence, she left the subject
of Patty because she surmised from Benham's tone that he would not be
sympathetic.
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