A window of the hotel, high up,
was lighted; he saw a shadow move across the blind. And most queer
sensations stirred within him, a sort of churning, and twining, and
turning of a single emotion on itself, as though spring and love,
bewildered and confused, seeking the way, were baffled. This girl,
who had called him Frank, whose hand had given his that sudden little
clutch, this girl so cool and pure--what would she think of such wild,
unlawful loving? He sank down on the grass, sitting there cross-legged,
with his back to the house, motionless as some carved Buddha. Was he
really going to break through innocence, and steal? Sniff the scent out
of a wild flower, and--perhaps--throw it away? "Of a girl at Cambridge
that I might have--you know!" He put his hands to the grass, one on each
side, palms downwards, and pressed; it was just warm still--the grass,
barely moist, soft and firm and friendly. 'What am I going to do?' he
thought. Perhaps Megan was at her window, looking out at the blossom,
thinking of him! Poor little Megan! 'Why not?' he thought. 'I love
her! But do I really love her? or do I only want her because she is so
pretty, and loves me? What am I going to do?' The piano tinkled on, the
stars winked; and Ashurst gazed out before him at the dark sea, as if
spell-bound.
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