her expressions, the light of her eyes, the turn of her face . . .
He wasn't good enough to walk in the same road with her. Nobody was. Suppose they let him say good-bye to her; what could he say? That? But they were sure not to let her talk to him alone; her mother would be there as, what was it?—Chaperone. He'd never once had a chance of saying what he felt; indeed, it was only now he was, beginning to realise what he felt. Love! he wouldn't presume. It was worship. If only he could have one more chance. He must have one more chance, somewhere, somehow. Then he would pour out his soul to her—eloquently. He felt eloquently, and words would come. He was dust under her feet . . .
His meditation was interrupted by the click of a door handle, and Jessie appeared in the sunlight under the verandah. "Come away from here," she said to Hoopdriver, as he rose to meet her. "I'm going home with them. We have to say good-bye."
Mr. Hoopdriver winced, opened and shut his mouth, and rose without a word.
