"They will think it so wrong of me. I know exactly how they will feel. And—I'm afraid it was wrong—really wrong."
"In any case, they will blame me, not you. Don't worry your dear self. Things will come right."
"Will they? I'm not so sure. It doesn't seem to have been quite—quite straight of me, not to tell at once. And I have always prided myself on being straight."
"You see, darling, it was simply a question which to do,—whether to write, or to wait till I could see your father."
"Oh, I know. But it was wrong. I see that now. I ought to have written. It was quite, quite wrong not to write! Or else—if I didn't— I ought not to have been so much with you, these last days."
"Shall I write to your father now? Would you rather that I should?"
She considered gravely.
"Yes, I would. I don't like to go home, and to have to tell them. I'd rather find them knowing it."
"I'll write this evening." He held her hand to his lips.
"You might say you are travelling home, and will go to Lynnbrooke for your answer. Would that do?"