"I hope you will have a good time and come back safely," she said, and then she was tongue-tied.
The two stood before each other, awkward and silent--two between whom no word of love had ever been spoken, but whose hearts were clamouring at the iron gates of speech.
Alice's face and neck were dyed crimson, as the impossible position dawned on her mind.

No word could break down the palisade, of form.
Lewis, his soul a volcano, struggled for the most calm and inept words.
He spoke of the weather, of her father, of his aunt's messages.
Then the girl held out her hand.
"Good-bye," she said, looking away from him.
He held it for a second.

"Good-bye, Miss Wishart," he said hoarsely.
Was this the consummation of his brief ecstasy, the end of months of longing?
The steel hand of fate was on him and he turned to leave.
He turned when he had gone three paces and came back.

The girl was still standing by the parapet, but she had averted her face towards the wintry waters.

His step seemed to fall on deaf ears, and he stood beside her before she looked towards him.
Passion had broken down his awkwardness.