She began running up towards the ruined tower.
Shelton let her keep in front, watching her leap from stone to stone and throw back defiant glances when he pressed behind.

She stood at the top, and he looked up at her.

Over the world, gloriously spread below, she, like a statue, seemed to rule.

The colour was brilliant in her cheeks, her young bosom heaved, her eyes shone, and the flowing droop of her long, full sleeves gave to her poised figure the look of one who flies.
He pulled himself up and stood beside her; his heart choked him, all the colour had left his cheeks.
"Antonia," he said, "I love you." She started, as if his whisper had intruded on her thoughts; but his face must have expressed his hunger, for the resentment in her eyes vanished.
They stood for several minutes without speaking, and then went home.
Shelton painfully revolved the riddle of the colour in her face.

Had he a chance then?
Was it possible?
That evening the instinct vouchsafed at times to lovers in place of reason caused him to pack his bag and go to Cannes.