“I have waited for this,” he said, and stood quite still, looking at her until the silence became oppressive. Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. “Do you know,” she confessed, “I never thought of that?” He looked at her as though doubting even now whether she could possibly be in earnest. Nature is a mother; her sympathies have always been feminist, and she has tempered the man to the shorn woman. You are the one person I can understand and feel—feel right with. He had chosen his time well.
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