part right!

"Mamma is always in such a fuss to go somewhere and do something else,"
she said, rather affecting the drawl of a fashionable young lady; for
she could hide anxiety better, she felt, that way. "Do you know, Mr.
Torrens, I don't believe a word of all that about people coming.
Nobody's coming. If there is, they've been there ever so long. I did so
want to talk to you about one of your poems. I mustn't stop now, I
suppose, or I shall be in a scrape." But all the while that she was
saying this she was standing with her right hand outstretched, as though
to say good-bye. Only the word remained unspoken.

"Which of my poems was it?" He was to all seeming looking full at her,
yet his hand did not come out to meet hers. There was hope still. How
could he ratify an adieu with a handshake, on the top of a question that
called for an answer?

Gwen had not arranged the point in her mind--had not thought of any
particular poem in fact. She took the first that occurred to her. "It's
the one called 'A Vigil in Darkness,'" she said. And then she would have
been so glad to withdraw it and substitute another. That was not
possible--she had to finish:--"I wanted to know if any other English
poet has ever used 'starren' for stars."

Adrian laughed. "I remember," said he; then quoted: "'The daughters of
the dream witch come and go,' don't they? 'The black bat hide the
_starren_ of the night.' That's it, isn't it?... No--so far as I know!
But they are a queer lot. Nobody ever knows what they'll be at next in
the way of jargon. It's some rubbish I wrote when I was a boy. I put it
with the others to please 'Re." This was his shortest for Irene.

If he would only have toned down his blank ignorance of the beautiful
white hand stretched out so appealingly to him--made the least
concession! If he had but held in readiness an open-fingered palm, with
intent, there would have been hope. But alas!--no such thing. When,
instead, he thrust both hands into the pockets of the blue Mandarin-silk
dressing-gown, Gwen felt exactly as if a knife had cut her heart. And
there were his two beautiful eyes looking--looking--straight at her!
Need Fate have worded an inexorable decree so cruelly?

Hope caught at a straw, _more suo_. What was more likely than that
darkness was intermittent? Many things--most things for that matter! Any
improbability to outwit despair. Anything rather than final surrender.
Therefore, said Gwen to herself, her hand