"It has been the best month I have
spent for a long, long time."
"It has been a pleasant month," Doris agreed.
They fell silent. Hollister looked away to the west where the deep
flame-red of low, straggling clouds shaded off into orange and pale
gold that merged by imperceptible tints into the translucent clearness
of the upper sky. The red ball of the sun showed only a small segment
above the mountains. In ten minutes it would be gone. From the east
dusk walked silently down to the sea.
"I shall be sorry when you are gone," he said at last.
"And I shall be sorry to go," she murmured, "but----"
She threw out her hands in a gesture of impotence, of resignation.
"One can't always be on a holiday."
"I wish we could," Hollister muttered. "You and I."
The girl made no answer. And Hollister himself grew dumb in spite of a
pressure of words within him, things that tugged at his tongue for
utterance. He could scarcely bear to think of Doris Cleveland beyond
sound of his voice or reach of his hand. He realized with an
overwhelming certainty how badly he needed her, how much he wanted
her--not only in ways that were sweet to think of, but as a friendly
beacon in the murky, purposeless vista of years that stretched before
him.
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