Then she knew that she had doubly blundered; that it would have been far better if she had said nothing. Ivor for a moment was perfectly still, looking down; and it was Bee who broke silence, in her quietest tones—
"I don't see that any one else in my place could have done differently."
"No—perhaps not! Oh, well—I suppose it was just a sort of instinct," explained Amy, feeling guilty.
"And a most kind benevolence towards two fellow-climbers in difficulties," Ivor added.
He stood up then to say good-bye; and Bee did not relax. She longed to do so, longed at this last moment to infuse some warmth into her manner. But Amy's latest interference had made it impossible. She felt frozen and rigid. Good-byes were quickly over; and he spoke no word of seeing her again. His manner too was cold by this time.
As he walked back to the Vicarage, he was conscious of deep disappointment. Bee had been perpetually in his thoughts of late. He had dwelt upon her constantly in imagination; and—much more than he was aware of till this hour—he had counted on the truth of Amy Smith's assertion. He had believed that Bee would be easily won, that she was at least disposed to care for him.
All that was at an end. She did not care; she felt no pleasure in meeting him. Recalling again the Hut scene, he realised how easily he might have misunderstood or exaggerated the meaning of the speech he had overheard—also how, even if Bee had been a trifle touched, she might by this time have lost the slight impression once made.
It was quite evident that she did not care any longer. No girl could put on so icy a manner towards a man whom she loved. So he told himself—little knowing! He could imagine no cause for such a manner, save one—indifference! Probably, she felt that she had been too kind to him at the time of his accident, and she wished to make him see that clearly.
If so, she had succeeded. He did see. He had no further expectations. The dream was dead. He wished that he had not come to Burwood.