"I don't know."
"Nonsense. People always know. I believe you are. There!—Put your head on my shoulder again, and go to sleep. You'll be all right presently."
He pulled her with rough kindness into the position suggested, pushing her hat back as he did so. The breeze, lifting her hair, made him exclaim: "I say, what a bump you got yesterday! Is that the mischief? Does it hurt?"
"It aches."
"Why didn't you tell me? Now shut your eyes, and be quiet. There's nobody near to look on."
Lettice made an attempt to obey, but in ten seconds the brown eyes were open again, gazing at some far-off vision, beyond the ken of Felix. He watched her with unwonted closeness. Perhaps the realisation of parting near at hand awoke a new warmth of affection. She had always been a good little sister: counted rather ordinary among themselves, a not unpleasing contrast to his clever and good-looking self. Now he was studying her purely for her own sake: and the patient sadness of the small pale face and wistful eyes woke in him an instinct of brotherly pity and protection. Had that look been there before, he wondered?
"What are you looking at, Lettice?"
"I don't know."
"Nonsense."
"I mean nothing particular."