But one evening , when I had known her a month , as time is reckoned , and long years as affection and understanding are computed , she told me her story -- at least , what there was to tell of it . The last chapter was missing . We were sitting together on the veranda at sunset . Most of the hotel people had gone for a harbour sail ; a few forlorn mortals prowled about the grounds and eyed our corner wistfully , but by the sign of the heliotrope shawl knew it was not for them . I was reading one of my stories to Miss Sylvia . In my own excuse I must allege that she tempted me to do it . I did not go around with manuscripts under my arm , inflicting them on defenceless females . But Miss Sylvia had discovered that I was a magazine scribbler , and moreover , that I had shut myself up in my room that very morning and perpetrated a short story . Nothing would do but that I read it to her . It was a rather sad little story . The hero loved the heroine , and she loved him . There was no reason why he should not love her , but there was a reason why he could not marry her . When he found that he loved her he knew that he must go away . But might he not , at least , tell her his love ? Might he not , at least , find out for his consolation if she cared for him ? There was a struggle ; he won , and went away without a word , believing it to be the more manly course . When I began to read Miss Sylvia was knitting , a pale green something this time , of the tender hue of young leaves in May . But after a little her knitting slipped unheeded to her lap and her hands folded idly above it . It was the most subtle compliment I had ever received . When I turned the last page of the manuscript and looked up , Miss Sylvia 's soft brown eyes were full of tears .
She lifted her hands , clasped them together and said XXXXX an agitated voice : `` Oh , no , no ; do n't let him go away without telling her -- just telling her .
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