He wore the light-coloured, large
checked suit affected at that period by young men escaping temporarily
from the black-frocked livery of shop or office, his hair was brushed
smoothly back and shone with brilliantine, his moustache was glossy with
the same admired preparation. His face was extra pale, but Deleah knew it
had the trick of paling suddenly and for small cause. She had seen it
blanch at a chance encounter with her in the street, or accidental
touching of her hand by his. She avoided meeting his eyes--those eyes said
to hold something in their expression which redeemed his face from the
commonplace--and the wild ardour of their gaze was lost upon her.
"Everything is yours, Deleah; when will you come and take it over?"
"Mr. Gibbon, I told you before. I have not changed."
"Nor I." His lips were lead-coloured and trembling; he was indeed
trembling all over. He crossed his arms upon his chest to keep them still.
"You are going to be my wife or no one's, Deleah," he said.
She got up nervously from her chair; she tried to speak lightly. "I am
going to be no one's, Mr. Gibbon," she said. "As I walked along to-night I
have been making up my mind what to do. I shall take a small house for us
all, and try to keep a little school.
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