I knew there was somebody,
and that it wasn't I."
They crossed Oxford Street in silence,
feeling their way. The busses had stopped
running and the cab-drivers were leading
their horses. When they reached the other side,
MacConnell said suddenly, "I hope you are happy."
"Terribly, dangerously happy, Mac,"--
Hilda spoke quietly, pressing the rough sleeve
of his greatcoat with her gloved hand.
"You've always thought me too old for
you, Hilda,--oh, of course you've never said
just that,--and here this fellow is not more
than eight years younger than I. I've always
felt that if I could get out of my old case I
might win you yet. It's a fine, brave youth
I carry inside me, only he'll never be seen."
"Nonsense, Mac. That has nothing to do with it.
It's because you seem too close to me,
too much my own kind. It would be like
marrying Cousin Mike, almost. I really tried
to care as you wanted me to, away back in the beginning."
"Well, here we are, turning out of the Square.
You are not angry with me, Hilda? Thank you
for this walk, my dear. Go in and get dry things
on at once. You'll be having a great night to-morrow."
She put out her hand. "Thank you, Mac,
for everything. Good-night."
MacConnell trudged off through the fog,
and she went slowly upstairs. Her slippers
and dressing gown were waiting for her
before the fire. "I shall certainly see him
in New York. He will see by the papers that
we are coming.
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